


At once our time devour

by nemonclature (nemo_r)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Depression, Excessive focus on magical literature, Gen, Harry goes shopping, Harry has some issues, Muggleborn Politics, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, The Dursleys are awful people, The Grand Tour - Wizarding style, Time Travel, Time Travel Fix-It, Trauma, Worldbuilding, actual snakes, chromatic characters, exploring magical britain, extremely long descriptions of harry's thoughts, fashion and politics, not just slytherins, really extremely long, the low end crew
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-04
Updated: 2018-12-09
Packaged: 2019-09-07 12:26:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 78,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16853944
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nemo_r/pseuds/nemonclature
Summary: While convalescing after the war, Harry accidentally activates an ancient time spell and is thrown back into his ten-year-old body.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is an extremely self-indulgent fic, and as such will feature lots of Harry thinking about things, and painstaking descriptions of mundane magical items, ‘cos that’s how I get my kicks. Plot will also probably happen eventually. I have no idea where this will end up.

Harry ducked his head and stepped into the cool darkness of the cave. The inside was inky black and it took a while for his eyes to adjust. He took a shuffling step forward, his hands reaching out to brush against the rough surface of the cave walls.

This was his last chance to explore, He was expected back in Britain tomorrow, He had his international portkey ready on the side table, an empty coke can, the side dented sharply in.

He wasn’t sure how he felt about returning to Britain. He hadn’t felt sure about anything much since the end of the war. Nothing felt entirely real to him. Only in flashes. Moments of realness so sharp in their intensity it hurt. Andromeda’s hug at Remus’ funeral, the slightly scratchy fabric of her robe and the faint scent of lavender perfume. Or Hermione and Ron saying goodbye to him at Grimmauld before he portkeyed out here, the way Ron’s arm fit over Hermione's shoulders, the colour of her eyes as the light caught them.

In the weeks and months since the war, there had been so many people, so many owls flying into the house, so many reporters wanting a statement here and a comment there. The Ministry wanted his seal of approval, or more honestly, they wanted his publicity to rubber stamp their moves in their post-Voldemort state.

He seemed to wake up every day with a new Order member there to greet him and escort him to the Ministry, or commandeer the kitchen table with books and decrees and pages and pages of notes. What to do with the Death Eaters, Harry? Who will care for the war orphans, Harry? Should the Slytherins be allowed back into school, Harry? 

He just wanted to put his hands over his ears and scream for them to leave him alone. But even that seemed like too much effort. He just nodded and smiled and tried to think deeply about things when he didn’t really want to think at all.

Which was why, when Charlie had come by Grimmauld, taken one look at him and said, “You need a holiday, mate.” Harry had nodded and smiled and then somehow found himself on the far side of Europe, enjoying the unexpected heatwave at the tail end of autumn.

There were no other buildings near the cabin. He’d trekked up a small hill one evening, the cool night air fresh on his brow, and seen a thin thread of smoke in the distance. So there were other houses scattered about. Charlie had said the place was popular with city dwellers from Bucharest. It was closed to muggles as some kind of nature reserve, which gave it something of an appeal among the magical community as a quiet getaway. Charlie’s friend had been happy to offer the place to his ‘young friend from Britain’, and since it was the off season, he hadn’t seen anyone else the whole time he’d been here. 

The Black Sea spread, choppy and dark from the door of the cabin and at the first sight of it, Harry had felt something deep inside him come unfree. He’d been right to come here. The isolation was strangely appealing, Harry was tired of the parade of owls, the clusters of miserable faces at each funeral and the clusters of reporters that had taken to pitching tents outside Grimmauld place like some sort of impromptu and very unwelcome festival.

The thought of returning to that, real life, made Harry’s chest feel tight, and he turned resolutely away from where he’d been staring back at the cave mouth, dropping his hand from the wall and walking deeper into the cave.

He’d come down here at the start of the week and he’d eaten his lunch perched on the flat rock at the back of the cave. A little light from a hole in the roof spotlighting the floor at his feet. He’d worked up a sweat walking down the long beach, and he’d shed his cloak, looking around for somewhere to hang it. That was when he’d seen the markings.

Harry circled the illuminated patch of floor, placing the smooth rock at his back, and looked up and to the right. There. In the corner where the wall met the roof, tiny dark lines that almost looked natural except for their uniformity. They looked something like runes. Not recognisably, but something in the way they were clustered had made Harry think of writing.

He walked towards them, reaching up above his head to trace them softly with his fingers.

He’d attempted to translate them, intrigued by their mystery, but he hadn’t been able to relate them to any of the runes he knew, not that he knew many. He’d copied them down carefully on a piece of paper, hoping Hermione would have better luck. Or maybe the library at Grimmauld Place would shed some light on them, but until he was home, he had no way of knowing, so they remained a mystery, and Harry had felt compelled to give them one last look before leaving. 

He let his hand drop from where he’d been tracing the marks and turned to leave the cave. As he turned, some tiny glint of light flashed in the corner of his eye. He stopped, turning back with a frown. What was that? One of the marks had flickered slightly. He stepped up close to it, craning his head to see. There, in the grooves of one of the marks, there was something… something that glinted, not shining but… reflecting? Yes. He stepped closer still, pressing one hand against the wall and rising onto his toes. There was something in the groove of the mark, something dark and... wet. Harry suddenly had a terrible sinking feeling.

He looked down at his hand and even in the gloom of the cave, he could see that the tip of one of his fingers was smeared with blood.

In that way that small cuts don’t hurt until being noticed, now that he’d seen it, he suddenly felt the throb at his fingertip. It was a tiny cut, barely more than a scratch. An edge of one of the markings must have caught at his skin. He hadn’t even noticed.

He shivered and pulled his cloak tighter around him. The air in the cave seemed to have turned colder. Harry took a step back, looking around him. His hand clutched on empty air at his waist. He hadn’t thought he’d need his wand, not for a walk down the beach. He’d finally let his guard down.

How stupid. How could he have been so stupid?

There was a scattering, soft sound as sand on the cave floor was drawn up in an eddy of wind. Harry looked around him. The sand shouldn’t be shifting. The cave was deep enough that the wind from the beach didn’t penetrate. The temperature was still dropping, and rapidly. He could feel goosebumps raising on the back of his neck. When he looked back at the marks he saw they were all glistening now, filling up with a shining darkness. This was bad. This was extremely bad.

Harry turned on his heel and ran towards the mouth of the cave. It should have taken him seconds to reach it, the cave was short, but instead he found himself running and running, the mouth never coming closer, in fact, as he ran, the light seemed to recede further and further away. He was panting, and at his back, he could hear the wind picking up, the noise turning to a scream, turning into a roar as the sand flew up around him. He threw his hand up to protect his eyes. It clawed at the back of his shirt, ran cold fingers through his hair. Little rocks and stones were being caught in the wind now, and the force of it was pushing harry back. 

Harry strained against the wind, trying desperately to reach the patch of light that was now tiny, as if down a long tunnel. “Help!” He shouted, “Help me!” But even if there had been someone to hear, his voice was snatched away by the greedy wind.

There was a great gust, his feet flew out from under him and Harry was thrown bodily against the wall. He cried out in pain, the shock of it reverberating up his bones and he fell in a slump at the base of the wall. Harry raised his hands to protect his eyes as they teared up against the wind. It was wild now, swirling all around him. Flashes of light and scraps of shadows seemed to fight for dominance. Rocks and stones flew up from the force of the wind, they pelted against him, beating at his arms and chest until he had to curl up into a ball to protect himself. He felt them drawing blood, one whipped a raw line across his cheek and another struck hard against his ribs.

There was a noise in the air, a great, voiceless screaming, that seemed to come from all directions, maybe the wind itself. He pulled his hands up over his head and braced as well as he could against the wall. But even as he did, the wind dragged him forwards, pulling him into its spin. He grabbed frantically for the wall with freezing fingers, but the rocks pelted at his hands and arms, and there was nothing for him to hold on to. The wind picked him up and Harry’s feet left the floor, he spun, and all around him was darkness and flashes of light. It was so cold, so bitterly cold, even the rocks beating and bruising him started to fade away to numbness. 

The wind drew him tighter, circling in and in until he saw the heart of the storm. A dark, gaping void and suspended within it, the carved markings glistening and twitching with their own power. For a second Harry hung suspended above them, and for a second he saw the truth of them and the knowledge of what they said was so vast that it filled his mind, crowded out behind his eyes and ears and filled his mouth until his head seemed it would burst, and his eyes rolled backwards, his body fell limp and with a thunderous crack the world disappeared.


	2. Chapter 2

“Up, Get Up.”

There was a loud banging noise somewhere above Harry’s head and Harry shot upright with a start, cracking his head on the beam above his bed.

He dropped back onto his pillow, with a groan, lifting his hand to his forehead. What the hell? Was he still in the cave? He blinked away black spots from his vision and as it cleared, he realised he recognised the shape of the beam above his head.

Shock bloomed inside him. It couldn’t be… He scrambled out of his bed. It _was_ his bed. His bed in the cupboard at Number four Privet Drive. He blinked around in amazement and reached out hesitantly and with shaky fingers to pick up the toy soldier resting on the beam across from him. He recognised it. It was his. He’d stolen this from the pile in Dudley’s room when he was nine. He remembered the excitement and the terror of creeping into his cousin's room and opening the toy cupboard. The daze of indecision as he saw the sheer volume of Dudley’s toys and the frantic decision to grab the soldier as he heard Dudley’s voice downstairs.

He swallowed uneasily and put the soldier back. How was this possible? How could he be here. But no, he realised. This wasn’t right. The cupboard was too big. It had been small for his ten year old self, there was no way he could fit in it now. He pulled the string for the light, and the space was bathed in the warm light of the single bulb. He looked around him. Yes, definitely his cupboard, but definitely the wrong size. He looked down at the floor... The floor that was extremely close. He caught sight of his skinny legs, his thin chest, his tiny hands and bird-boned wrists.

Harry screamed.

A second later he fell out of the cupboard, scrambling away until his back met the wall.

This wasn’t possible. He couldn’t be here, he couldn’t be a child again, this wasn’t real.

He looked around, wide-eyed until he met his Aunt Petunia’s eyes where she was standing in her frilly apron at the stove.

“What on earth are you doing?” she asked, her voice climbing to an uncomfortable shrill. “Get up off the floor”, she said, stalking towards him, spatula still held in her hand.

Some instinctive part of Harry reacted to the sight of her looming above him, and he scrambled upright, “Sorry,” halfway out his lips before he’d even though to speak.

“Sorry Aunt Petunia, I…” He choked to a stop. I what? I don’t know what I’m doing? I don’t know how I’m here?

“Are you sick?” She asked, and rather than leaning forward to check his temperature, she leant back, her expression one of fixed disgust. When Harry continued to say nothing, just stare around him in shock, “Are you sick?” She said again, peering at him without moving forward, giving her body an even more birdlike look than usual.

Harry blinked up at her. And it was up, so high up. Damn, he’d forgotten what it felt like to be this short. _Was_ he sick? Well Aunt Petunia, he thought, I seem to have contracted a severe case of the time travels. Harry felt a laugh rise in his throat, ballooning up from his chest until he couldn’t stop it and it exploded out of him, high pitched and more than a little hysterical. The face Aunt Petunia pulled was too much, it set him laughing again. He couldn’t stop. Tears gathered in the corners of his eyes and his chest ached. He folded in on himself, still laughing, gasping, crying. What was happening to him? Had he gone mad? Was this insanity?

He bit his lip to stop the laughter, his hand pressed against this mouth.

Aunt Petunia had had enough. “Back to your cupboard. I’m not letting you anywhere near the breakfast like this. Go. Go,” she insisted and nudged him sharply with her foot. Harry, managing to stifle his laughter, half walked, half crawled back to his cupboard. It slammed behind him as his aunt kicked it shut. He didn’t hear the lock thrown though, so he supposed that was something. Yeah, he thought, that’s something, at least I’m not _locked_ in a cupboard in my ten-year-old body in the past.

He sank down to the ground, leaning against his bed, his laughs finally subsiding. Must be ten, Harry thought. He’d moved room after his birthday. Unless he was even younger. Harry dropped his head into his hands.

What was he going to do? How could he be sure this was the past? Could it be some kind of intense hallucination? He raised his head and pinched his arm. “Ow,” he said to the quiet cupboard. Well, not a dream then.

He took a deep breath, and scrubbed the moisture from his eyes and sniffed. Then he propped his chin in his hands. He remembered the cave and the whirlwind. He raised his fingers to his cheek, but there was no cut, and in fact, he felt fine, no bruises or scratches anywhere on him. 

He remembered that final moment when he’d looked at the words, but his mind moved sideways around them. He remembered that it happened, but he couldn’t find the memory, it was like oil, moving slickly out of his grasp. Everything about it made him uneasy and eventually, he stopped trying to remember. He shivered, rolling his shoulders to loosen the tension that had gathered in them.

He could probably be sure it was some kind of spell. Some kind of extremely ancient, extremely powerful spell that he had activated with his own blood. Harry groaned. Of all the ridiculous things.

He took a deep breath. “Ok. Ok. So. A spell.” He whispered into the silence. “A spell that sent me back in time. Which shouldn't be possible, because Time Turners are the only things that can do that.” He paused, aren’t they? He thought back to the time room. He didn’t know much about time magic. Correction, he didn’t know anything about time magic. Hermione would know. He tightened his grip on his knees. He wished she were here now. Her and Ron. He gripped the edges of his knobbly knees, feeling trapped and fragile in his tiny body.

She would know, she was the one with the Time Turner. He remembered standing next to her, the chain looped over their necks as they spun the Time Turner in the hospital wing, the blur of the people moving around him, and Harry’s mind jumped as memories will do, connecting that to the way the sand rose in the wind of the cave… the spinning and whirling movement...

Harry sat upright all of a sudden. Could it be? Where did they get the sand for time turners anyway?

Could some ancient time magic ritual _really_ have sent him back in time? Harry tried to remember how many times he’d spun around the cave, but it had been so dark, and he’d been so distracted with the rocks and the general terror of the moment, he couldn’t say.

Magic was weird. It could do a whole lot of things they never really told you about in Hogwarts classes. It wasn’t entirely impossible that it could send a person back this far in time. Maybe that cave was the only place, after all, Nicholas Flamel made the only Philosopher’s stone, and Harry’s cloak was the only one of its kind. Maybe it was a special cave. That everyone had forgotten about. For centuries.

He dropped his head back on his hands again. And of course, he would be the one to find it.

Harry closed his eyes. The cupboard was actually quite peaceful. The house creaked around him. He could hear Aunt Petunia in the kitchen, the sound of frying and he realised he could even smell the bacon.

There was something, maybe not comforting, but certainly familiar about it all. He wondered if some part of him would always call this place home, even if it had never been a true one. That was good he supposed because it kept him safe. Except it didn't’ because Voldemort was dead…

Oh shit.

Harry raised his head, his eyes very wide behind his glasses. No. He wasn’t. Voldemort _wasn’t_ dead here, not here in the past. In fact he was very much alive, with all his horcruxes intact, including… Harry raised a trembling hand to his forehead.

He traced the outline if his scar softly, before dropping his hand. 

Fuck.

**

Harry wasn’t sure how long he sat there staring at nothing, his thoughts chasing circles inside his head, but he was eventually interrupted from his daze by Aunt Petunia, wrenching the cupboard door opening and shoving a thermometer in his direction. “Here,” she said, shortly. Harry took it silently and placed it in his mouth. He sat silently contemplating his miserable luck until Aunt Petunia got tired of tapping her foot and reached down to tug the thermometer from his mouth. She frowned at the temperature. “Well,” she said finally. “You don’t seem to have a fever.” She stood, staring down at him for a moment, before nodding her head sharply. “You’d better come out then. And,” noticing his clothes, snapped, “get dressed first, honestly, No one has time for you to lie about all day.” She spun on her heel and darted back towards the kitchen.

Harry pulled the cupboard door closed after a moment, and having nothing else to do, he got dressed. He was acting mostly on autopilot, a steady refrain of _what the hell, what the hell_ going through his mind. He was probably in shock, he realised, after a moment, and he pulled out an extra hoodie, slipping it on over his clothes. Being one of Dudley’s cast-offs, it easily fit, in fact, he had to roll up the sleeves thrice before his hands could poke out the ends. He looked miserably down at his tiny body. Had he really been this small? Surely not. This couldn’t be real.

Thus armed, he left the cupboard and shuffled hesitantly into the kitchen, leaning against the door jamb and blinking around him. His last shreds of disbelief started to burn away like fog in the morning. Everything was exactly as he remembered it, more so in fact. His memories of this place had been dulled, filed under do not review and dumped in the bottom cabinet of his mind. If you’d asked him to transfigure a perfect copy of the Privet Drive kitchen last week, he would never have managed something as exact and clear as this, everything was here, the ugly lino, the chipped Formica table, that hideous lamp shade, even down to the pile of presents heaped up on the kitchen table. The sight of them sparked a cascade of memories in his mind and Harry suddenly realised exactly _when_ he was. It was Dudley’s fateful birthday trip to the zoo.

“Sit there” Aunt Petunia snapped, pointing with the spatula. Harry walked over to the chair and climbed up. His short legs swung free. Last time he’d made breakfast he remembered. He looked around the kitchen. Dudley had been counting presents and he’d wanted to finish his food before the eventual table flip when Dudley realised he had fewer than last year, but, he frowned, there hadn’t been a tantrum, Aunt Petunia must have promised him something.

As if on cue, Dudley appeared at the kitchen door, eyes only for his presents, he waddled forward and heaved himself up, noticing Harry only as an afterthought, but his eyes narrowed as he glanced between Harry and his mother. “Mum,” he said, “Why’s Harry not making breakfast?”

Aunt Petunia had finished with the eggs by now, and she brought Dudley his plate, piled high. “Because he’s sick darling, I didn’t want his nasty germs anywhere near your food, Diddikums.” And she bent to press a bird-peck kiss to his head.

Dudley sneered, reaching for his plate and tugging it closer towards him. “Yuck,” he said in Harry’s direction, before taking up his cutlery and shovelling food into his mouth.

A minute of watching that and Harry really did start to feel sick. He looked away to where Aunt Petunia was back at the stove and up at Uncle Vernon as he made his way to his seat and, frowning in Harry’s general direction, he unfolded the paper like a shield between him and his unwelcome nephew.

Aunt Petunia placed a piece of dry toast in front of Harry and a glass of water.

“You’d better keep that down.” She said, with a glare towards his middle, as if the force of her eyes alone could control Harry’s stomach, before taking her seat.

Harry looked at the three of them. It all seemed so normal. He wanted to fling his plate on the ground, stand on his chair and scream in their faces. _What’s going on? Can’t you see? What are you doing?_ Or maybe just shout. _Magic! Magic! Magic!_ And jump up and down waving his hands in the air.

He did none of those things. Instead, he took a sip of water, and after a moment, started on his toast. It tasted like toast. Dry and bland without even butter, nothing like Molly Weasley’s homemade loaves, or the chewy, flavourful slices at Hogwarts. He felt like he was living a dream, despite the pinch. Could he have hit his head on the stone wall of the cave? Could he be unconscious right now? Somehow trapped in his memories? But that didn’t seem right. He’d been inside memories before, both through Legilimency and through a Pensieve, there was a shivery, silvery quality to the latter, and a blurred subjective focus to the former. This was all too crisp, too clear. Not just that, but the magic he’d felt in the cave, the vast, rising weight of it, had entirely disappeared. Harry thought he knew what the lingering magic of a spell felt like, and this wasn’t it. There was no heavy, ancient magic in the air, whatever it was, it had spent itself entirely. Spent itself sending him back?

After a moment, he realised Dudley was counting his presents and with a strange feeling of deja-vu, he watched the same scene unfold as before. Dudley growing red as a tomato as he demanded more presents, and Aunt Petunia folding like a wilting flower and offering him two more.

“Little tyke wants his money’s worth, just like his father. ‘Atta boy, Dudley!’ Uncle Vernon said, his fat fingers ruffling Dudley’s hair.

Dudley put up with this show affection, not at all and shrugged his father's hand away.

Harry heard the telephone ring. Memories flickered and Harry watched Aunt Petunia's receding back with a feeling of foreboding. He remembered the zoo trip, remembered how happy he’d been at the time that Mrs Figg had what was it, her leg? Yes, broken her leg. He felt a little bad at his past self, considering she’d always looked out for him in her own way. 

That didn’t solve his situation now though, he thought with a little shake of his head. He didn’t want to go to the zoo. Mostly he wanted to curl up in a ball and scream very loudly, and then maybe have a hot cup of tea and work out his next move. He had to make contact with the wizarding world, he thought. That had to be the next step. And making that decision, small though it was, made him feel good enough to finish the rest of his toast.

By this time, Aunt Petunia had returned and her expression was as grim as Harry remembered it.

Harry coughed, once, rather pointedly. Maybe, if he was sick, she could be induced to leave him here.

Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon ran through possible caretakers for Harry and Dudley, showing remarkable foresight, began to screw his face up in preparation for a second tantrum.

“We could leave him here.” Aunt Petunia said. Harry focused on controlling his expression, hoping to strike pitiful but trustworthy. “Leave him here!” Uncle Vernon exploded, and Harry gave up and ducked his head, figuring making himself as small as possible was probably his best bet.

“He’ll burn the place down!”

“He’s not feeling well, are you, boy?” She asked him, and Harry looked back up. Uncle Vernon’s face surpassed Dudley in tomato-ishness, so Harry kept his eyes on his Aunt and nodded. Not entirely trusting his voice. The whole situation was insane. How was he in the power of these two muggles again? He was Harry Potter, he’d dealt with dark wizards and terrible curses and he’d been through the Tri-Wizard Tournament for Merlin’s sake.

He dropped his eyes again and battled down the hysteria. He was a wizard without a wand, he reminded himself. It wasn’t like he’d ever been good at wandless magic. A glaring oversight, now he thought of it since that meant apparition was out as well. 

Dudley grabbed for a present, and Harry raised his head with a jerk, realising he’d missed the rest of the conversation. Not that it mattered, because Aunt Petunia had come beside him and grabbed his bony shoulder tugging him out of his chair and towards the cupboard.

“Wait, what?” 

“In,” she snapped.

“You can’t lock me in there,” Harry said, his voice rising.

Aunt Petunia just glared down at him, her hands on her hips. “You don’t think we’re giving you run of the house,” she said incredulously.

“But, but…” Harry scrambled for a reason that wasn’t ‘basic human decency’ as she reached for him again. “But what if I need the toilet?” He said, scrambling out from under her grip.

Aunt Petunia paused. “You can go now.” 

“But what if I need it later?” Harry responded promptly. “You can’t want me to go in there.” He gestured towards the cupboard and saw Aunt Petunia's eyes widen and her mouth curl in distaste. Harry pressed his advantage.

“I’m really not feeling well, Aunt Petunia, I promise I will just go to my cupboard and sleep.” Something deep inside him twisted uneasily at the sound of that, ‘my cupboard’ like ‘my cage’, he thought, but he pressed on regardless “But please don’t lock me in. I don’t want to make a mess.” Houseproud as she was, he was hoping that would have an effect. 

It seemed to work. Aunt Petunia glanced at the kitchen, then simply nodded sharply then pushed him towards the cupboard, her lips in a thin line. Harry, having no other choice, crawled in and behind him, the cupboard door slammed shut. Harry waited, but the sound of the lock never came.

He left the cupboard light off and sat in the dark waiting for his family to leave. Eventually, he heard them moving into the hall. Dudley’s horrible friend Piers turned up, and then there was a great clatter in the hallway as they put on their coats and got their keys. First Dudley and Piers, then Uncle Vernon left the house and last Aunt Petunia with a final rap on his cupboard door and an admonishment to “Behave himself.” And they were gone.

Harry let out a breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding, and lay back on his bed.

Now what? 

Earlier this morning, while he’d been in his cupboard lamenting Voldemort's probable re-animation as a spirit stuck to Quirrell’s head, he’d realised Voldemort wasn’t the only one to be alive again. Dumbledore was too. And Snape, and Remus and Fred and Dobby and everyone who died at Hogwarts and everyone who died anywhere... Sirius. Harry caught his breath. Sirius was alive. 

Harry pressed his eyes shut. Amazed he’d only realised that now. He could feel a sensation like wings unfurling behind his ribs. His Godfather was alive. There was no way, absolutely no way he was letting Sirius die again. Not a chance.

He clenched his hand into a fist and opened his eyes again. But Sirius was in Azkaban. No help to him right now, and he was no help to Sirius either, not unless he could get Pettigrew, who was with the Weasleys, who he couldn’t get to anyway because he was stuck in his thrice-damned cupboard in Privet Drive. Harry exhaled roughly. There had to be a way out of this. What would Hermione do?

Deliberately unfolded his fingers and pressed them flat against his blanket. 

Should he tell someone? Obviously, he couldn’t risk telling the wrong person, imagine if Lucius Malfoy got a hold of all the information in his brain about the future, but what about Dumbledore? He could tell Dumbledore everything, he thought. The idea was very appealing, Dumbledore would know what to do He’d make a plan, find all the horcruxes. All the horcruxes. Harry’s spirits sank. That meant the one in his scar and that meant...

Harry rolled over onto his side, curling up. The trees of the Forbidden Forest flashed behind his eyes.

He’d thought about this a lot over the weeks and months since the final battle at Hogwarts. Dumbledore’s decision to send Harry to his death. It had made sense in the moment. Still made a terrible kind of sense now, but, in the time since then, it had started to sit uneasily on him. 

It was seeing all the broken families in the great hall that started it. Seeing the dead laid out. So many children. Why had the battle even come to Hogwarts? In the weeks since then, he’d just buckled under it all. It had been so much to take, and looking back, it was like he’d taken a breath on the Hogwarts express in first year, and then just been shunted from crisis to crisis to crisis every year after. He didn’t know how to deal with it. Hermione had dug up these muggle books on trauma and just left them lying around Grimmauld Place, but Harry hadn’t been able to bring himself to open one for fear of what might come pouring out.

Harry shook his head, he was getting off topic. He’d been doing a lot of this, not just here, in the past, he thought with a flicker of humour, (or was that hysteria) But in the… the future? After the war in any case. Just getting lost in his thoughts.

He closed his eyes and dragged himself back on track. But the question now was, should he tell someone. Specifically, should he tell Dumbledore? 

He pulled his knees up and curled his arm over them. The headmaster would take all the stress of making decisions away, there was that. And he could trust him to do the right thing about Voldemort. But the rest of it? Harry wasn’t sure that being a headmaster and a general of a war was really a good combination. It seemed obvious the war would end at the school looked at in that way, but it shouldn’t be obvious. Children shouldn’t be fighting a war. Harry knew he was right about this, too many sacrifices had been made, not just by individuals, not just lives, but also morals. He thought of the unforgivable curses that had passed his lips. He didn’t want that to happen again.

Somewhere out there his friends were just kids, just ten years old, no memories of war and death and loss crowding out their heads. He didn’t want them, didn’t want anyone, to go through all that. If this was his saving people thing, well maybe that wasn’t such a bad character trait.

Could he just go back to Romania? Try and find the cave? But what would happen to this Harry, could he just jump back into the future? Spin the cave in reverse? He’d never heard of anything like that. Hermione had never mentioned the possibility when she’d spoken about her Time Turner. He could try and get help from the Ministry, from the Department of Mysteries, but then there was the question about telling people again. They’d want to know why, and could he really trust a Ministry that was possibly in Malfoy’s pocket with his knowledge of the future?

No, Harry thought. No, he could not. 

Harry rubbed at his eyes. He supposed he didn’t have to decide right now. It wasn’t like there was really any great urgency. Sure, he didn’t want to be here with the Dursleys, but nothing bad was going to happen to the wizarding world if he did. Bad things might happen to him, he supposed, but he could deal with that. He had before, and he was older now, albeit not in body. 

Suddenly sick of his cupboard, Harry kicked his legs out and climbed off the bed, pushing the door open softly. He left his cupboard and padded along the hall to the living room. The TV dominated the room, squashy sofas ranged towards it. He remembered wanting so very much to be able to watch TV when he was living here. It had seemed like an impossible luxury. He walked forwards, running his hands over the arm of the sofa. He’d been allowed in occasionally, but never on the sofas. Like a dog, he’d had to sit on the floor.

Harry sat defiantly in the centre of the sofa, scrambling back until he was all the way on the cushion, legs straight out in front of him. He had a hole in his right sock, and his big toe was starting to poke through.

Harry let his head fall back on the sofa cushion and he stared up at the white ceiling, following the swirls in the plaster with his eyes.

He could tell someone else, someone, not Dumbledore, but anyone in the Order he told would just tell Dumbledore. And anyway, this was assuming they believed him. They could use veritaserum, or Dumbledore could just look inside his head, he shivered.

So they probably would believe him, but they’d still see him as a ten-year-old. They wouldn’t have any reason to keep his secret.

He wasn’t entirely happy with not telling anyone and staying here, but he couldn’t see a better option, and anyway, how would he even get to Hogwarts? He could try and find the money for the train, there might be something in Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon’s room, but the Hogwarts Express wouldn’t be leaving now. If he got to Diagon Alley he could access his own money. Only wait, could he? He didn’t have his key. He could just go to Gringotts and brazen it out like they did with Bellatrix, but he didn’t have his wand and anyway, even if he did, how would they know what it looks like? Thinking of that, how did they know what Bellatrix’s wand looked like? Maybe it had been a trap from the start and they’d known they were thieves and they’d never have got anywhere if not for… Harry grimaced. If not for the _imperius_. Yeah. well, he wasn’t going start throwing Unforgivables around, that was for sure.

Without his money, he couldn’t get to Hogwarts. He could throw himself on the mercy of someone, maybe Florian Fortescue, or Tom at The Leaky, but… he didn’t like the sound of that, causing a scene, trading on his name in fact, since they didn’t know him at all.

No, Harry shook his head, drawing his knees up and curling up yet again into a small ball. The arms of Dudley’s hoodie had unfolded and slipped down know over his knuckles.

He was on his own for now.

**

Eventually, hunger got him moving and Harry returned to the kitchen. The kitchen was organised as he remembered and it didn’t take him long to set some water boiling for pasta and get the cheese and pesto from the fridge. He wondered if he should add a vegetable. After the ham and cheese diet, Hermione had been on a bit of a vitamins kick and their meals at the Grimmauld- Harry’s thoughts cut off as he was overwhelmed with a feeling of longing so strong he took a step back. Merlin, he missed his friends. They were who he wanted to tell, together they could decide what to do. He hated being on his own. Being back here at the Dursleys, it was almost like _that_ was the dream, his wizarding life. Could he really be a wizard? Could he really have had friends that went through all those insane adventures with him? Harry stumbled back and sat down at the table. Could it be just some kind of extremely vivid dream? He thought, like how people saw their entire lives flash by them in near-death experiences. Could he have ‘lived’ something that wasn’t real? Was his birthday going to come and go with no Hogwarts letter and by September he would be enrolled at Stonewall high in Dudley’s boiled grey cast offs.

Harry stared at the wooden spoon he’d left on the kitchen counter. He pointed at it with his finger and with a swish and a flick, “ _Wingardium Leviosa_ ”.

Nothing happened.

Harry stood up with a thrum of nerves and pointed at the spoon again, concentrating hard. “ _Wingardium Leviosa_ ”, he repeated, but again, nothing happened. A third time he said the spell, but the spoon stayed resolutely still.

No, no, Harry thought. It can’t be made up, it can’t. He reached out, this time spreading his fingers. I refuse to believe I made it all up, he insisted. Everything that’s happened to me, everything I’ve done, all of it, the magic. He remembered what it had felt like to pick up his wand for the first time, the rush of magic from his core all the way to his fingertips, lighting him up inside like ten thousand light bulbs, and reached for the spoon with a shout.

With a bang and a shatter of glass, every light bulb in the house exploded.

Harry ducked, half under the table, hands gripping a wand that wasn’t there, before he saw the glass on the floor and, looking up at the ceiling, realised what had happened. He unfolded slowly, shaking off memories of spells flying thick in the air and leant against the table. His heart was beating a drum roll under his ribs and it took him a minute to collect himself enough to straighten. 

Stepping carefully around the glass, he checked each room, even upstairs. He came back down at sat on the bottom step. Well, that pretty definitely answered the magic question he thought. Though, I’d like to know why I exploded all the bulbs when what I had been planning to do was make a spoon float. He was definitely going to look into wandless magic. He really didn’t know why he hadn’t bothered before.

He went into the kitchen to get the vacuum cleaner as he pondered. Maybe because there was so much about magic that had been exciting and new. Why worry about wandless magic when wand magic was so amazing? And it was amazing, Harry thought. Despite everything that had happened to him, magic had never ceased to be utterly awe-inspiring, but, Harry plugged the vacuum in and flicked it on, but, what happened to the Harry that had read his books cover to cover before the first year of Hogwarts? Where had that excitement gone? He wondered. 

He supposed the struggle to study over the summer without his family knowing had played a part. And, well, there was always so much going on. He tugged the vacuum into the hall. If he was honest, he did get lazy. Hermione was always so good at everything, Harry had fallen into the habit of consulting Hermione rather than looking things up himself. It was easier and he always needed the information right away, life or death, faster for Hermione to research and him to act.

He finished the hall and made his way into the living room. Putting it that way, it didn’t seem so bad. But he still felt a bit guilty, maybe for letting down little Harry. Only wait. He _was_ little Harry now.

Harry flicked the vacuum off and began to drag it up the stairs. Proving the reality of magic was all well and good, he thought, huffing, but might be better do something less messy next time.

By the time he finished with the cleaning, awkwardly carried the vacuum back downstairs and put it away, the water was bubbling violently, and Harry quickly turned the flame down and added the pasta.

He poured himself a glass of water and left it on the table, then stood on a chair to check the top shelf of the cleaning cupboard. No lightbulbs. Damn.

He could try and find money in his Aunt and Uncle’s room, but he wasn’t that hopeful about finding anything. They weren’t the kind of people to leave money about where little nephews could find it. Still, he checked on the pasta, then nipped upstairs, pulling out the drawers and checking all the shelves in Aunt Petunia’s vanity, but all he found was old makeup and jewellery. He wasn’t exactly going to pawn her pearls, much as it might give him satisfaction to do so. There was nothing in the wardrobe either, and the bedside table had a handful of coppers and one ten pence piece. Great.

Harry ran back down and drained his pasta, adding his pesto and cheese before setting it next to his water and sitting on the chair.

He ate his pasta slowly, savouring the experience of being alone in the house. He knew he should be getting on with all the important things that he had to achieve, like deciding what to do next and who to tell about the future and flying to Romania, but there was something weirdly liberating about being trapped in Muggle Surrey. Anyway, he’d decided to enjoy the little things. Well, he’d decided it just now, while eating pasta. He hadn’t really had the chance to stop and enjoy anything for a really long time. He was going to savour this pasta. Everything else could wait.

He realised the fog of grey that had followed him around for the last few months had lifted. Maybe it was the strangeness of this, maybe it was the familiarity of the past, maybe it was just the adrenaline of the whole experience, but for the first time in a very long time Harry felt truly alive, and he wanted to really feel every part of it.

A little while later, belly full and bowl washed dried and put away, Harry stood looking up and considering the empty light bulbs. He could just leave them. Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia would no doubt blame him, he’d probably never get to be alone in the house again. But did that matter? If his memory served he’d be receiving his Hogwarts letter soon, and that would spark a whole new drama. The light bulbs would almost certainly be forgotten.

He decided to take the gamble, he didn’t really have any other choice, he could ask Mrs Figg if she had any bulbs, what with her leg being broken, she’d probably be home, but he didn’t really want to visit her, even if he felt bad, and anyway, who had eight lightbulbs just lying around?

Harry wandered up to Dudley’s second bedroom. This would be his soon, he thought, pushing the door open and standing in the doorway. Strange to see it like this, with Dudley’s things cascading across the floor. He shuffled his way in kicking Dudley’s broken toys back to the cupboard and sat down on the bed. He hadn’t made any real changes after moving in, just thrown away most of the broken toys. He caught sight of the books stacked on the shelf opposite. He’d never even flicked through them last time, too busy with his magic books. He couldn’t think when he’s last read a book for fun, a storybook. Even _The Tales of Beadle the Bard_ had been tied up in the war, and anyway, Hermione had read that, not him. A recurring theme, he thought with chagrin. 

Harry stood and strode purposefully towards the books, tilting his head to read the titles. He only recognised one of the authors, and that was Charles Dickens. He shook his head at whichever misguided adult had gifted Dudley with Dickens. The others were classics, he knew this because they had ‘Penguin Classics’ printed along the bottom and then the remaining few were clearly children’s books, with brighter covers and more interesting titles. There were a couple of picture books that Harry figured he could be forgiven passing over, even if he was technically ten, and he picked up one of the likely looking children’s books. Flipping it over to read the blurb he thought it was good thing Dudley had never bothered reading this, since it was very obviously a fantasy novel, with all the magic and dragons you could shake a stick at. Harry thought about hiding it in his cupboard, but remembering he’d probably be in here soon, he left it, making a mental note to read it when he next got the chance.

Harry walked back over to the bed and sat on it, leaning against the wall and looking out of his window. He supposed it made sense to accept this reality as fact, even if he wasn’t entirely sure. He really was in the past or something like it. It wasn’t a lie or a fantasy, he wasn’t mad. This was really happening. He wasn’t going to get out of it by snapping his fingers or hiding under the bed.

And if he had to live this part of his life again, at least until he could reach the wizarding world, and find a way to get to that cave, well... of course he’d trade it for his friends and his real life in a heartbeat, but if he really was stuck here? Well, it wasn’t the first time Harry had had to accept a horrible truth. He supposed he could trash the house just like he had Dumbledore’s office in fifth year, but, well, he wasn't an angry teenager anymore.

“No, I’m an angry ten-year-old.” He said out loud, then he laughed softly.

“What now?” He said, deciding talking to himself was better than the silence he’d been enfolded in ever since the Dursleys left. As if thinking about it had been the cue, Harry suddenly felt extremely uncomfortable with the silence, and he went downstairs directly and turned the TV on. With the volume down to just a babble, he headed back into the kitchen to make himself a cup of tea.

If this is really happening, Harry thought, then my actions have consequences. Either it’s the past, or it’s some alternate reality, or even if it’s just temporary and I’ll jump back to my real time soon (and oh I hope that’s the case). Either way, what happens matters, and I guess... He hummed softly. I guess I have a duty to change things for the better. I certainly don’t want to change them for the worse.

The zoo, he’d already changed. Next was the letter. I could just take it, he thought, glancing towards the front door. If he took it, he could probably reply without anyone knowing. Chances are the owl hung around for a bit, the later ones did.

So he’d reply and then… how would he get to Gringotts? How would he get his key? Would Dumbledore send Hagrid, or someone else? They probably would, that was how it was done for muggleborns, or muggle raised. Dumbledore had gone for Tom Riddle after all. So he could hide the letter. But then he’d never get moved into the second bedroom. Or, well, he might if Hagrid came and saw the cupboard, but then again, he might not. You never knew with the Dursleys. Also, Hagrid was, well, he was Harry’s first friend and Harry loved him, but he wasn’t exactly the most observant person.

Harry could leave the first letter and try and get a later one after he’d been moved. But he’d tried that the last time. He remembered stepping on Uncle Vernon’s face in the dark, and jumping on Uncle Vernon’s back the other time and scrambling for his letter. Yeah, Uncle Vernon as a fully grown adult vs Harry without any magic wasn’t a fight Harry could win. 

Harry sighed. He could leave it and let things play out as they did before, Uncle Vernon would get increasingly frantic, which might be amusing, Harry thought, and then Hagrid would turn up, give Dudley a pig tail and take Harry shopping. He should probably feel bad about Dudley’s tail, but they got it removed in the end, and anyway, Dudley right now wasn’t anywhere near the person he might grow up to be. It could be character building for him. 

Harry nodded to himself. Yes letting it happen seemed the most sensible route. Hagrid had given Harry his key after Gringotts. He could always go back into Diagon Alley via the Knightbus, or even on the train if he changed some money into pounds. The Dursleys left him alone for the rest of summer, he remembered. They even gave him a lift to Kings Cross before abandoning him. In fact, things were much worse next summer than they were before he started at Hogwarts.

Once he’d been introduced to the Wizarding World, he could start looking into ways to get to the cave. Without letting anyone know he was from the future. He could just buy a broom and fly. Well, that wasn’t exactly subtle, but maybe a plan B. If he could get the cave to reverse it and send him back. That had to be the best option. Harry thought of his friends, of the people waiting for him back home, and his chest ached.

Except, they weren’t really waiting were they? Here they didn’t even know him. And what about the people who died, he thought, catching his breath. Did he have a duty to them to stay? To… to what? To live his life all over again? To fight, to search out the horcruxes, at least, he rubbed his forehead, at least the other ones. He was electing to postpone any decisions about the scar and his whole, well, death. He thought he was allowed at least a few weeks grace on that front. He’d just had his whole life turned upside down.

Should he do something about them? Namely, destroy them. Although without the basilisk steeped sword, how was he going to destroy them? He couldn’t exactly ask the snake to chomp down on command.

Or... wait... Harry tapped his fingers against this mouth. Maybe he could. After all, he was a parseltongue. He wasn’t the Heir of Slytherin though. Harry thought about his scar, he maybe was partially the heir? And wasn’t that a lovely thought, he shivered.

Harry was suddenly struck by a thought. Unless he wasn’t? Unless it didn’t come back with him. Could he be free of the horcrux just as he was in the future?

Harry leapt up. That would change things. That would change things a lot. But how to check? Harry cast about, he couldn’t exactly test for dark magic residue without a wand, and he didn’t get Voldemort dreams until much later, but, parseltongue! He lost it after he came back, it was the only surefire way to know. Harry turned to rush… where? He pulled up short. He needed a snake, or maybe just the image of a snake? But how would he know he was speaking it? It sounded just like English to him. Damn. He should have insisted on the zoo after all.

Harry sighed.

Ok, wait, maybe he could do this.

Harry let himself out the back door and into the garden. He crouched down on the ground and closed his eyes, imagining a snake, a snake like the one Malfoy had conjured in duelling club, big and menacing and rearing up in front of him.

“ _Come to me_ ,” he said, “ _Any of you who slither and slide, any of you who live in the grass or under the rocks in dark places. Snakes of Privet Drive._ He broke off, that sounded a bit ridiculous, but with a shrug, he went with it Snakes of Privet Drive,” he repeated, “ _come to me._

He leant back on his haunches. Well, either that worked or it didn’t, he thought, and he stayed there waiting until his knees started to ache and he shifted to sit cross-legged.

It might actually be gone, he thought, tilting his head to look up at the clouds. How brilliant would that be? No dreams, no connection with Voldemort, no possession, no…

“ _Hello?_ ”

Harry glanced around him. Then, with a sudden burst of miserable comprehension, he looked down at the grass. Curled up in front of his foot was a tiny, bright green grass snake.

“ _You called?_ ” The snake said, his head bobbing slightly.

Harry swallowed his disappointment.

“ _I did._ ” he said. “ _Um, thanks for coming._ ”

“ _You’re welcome_ ”, the snake said. “ _I’ve never met a speaker before._ ” And he tilted his head slightly from side to side, its tongue flicking out to taste the air.

“ _Well, that’s me_ ,” Harry said heavily, “ _a speaker_. He was silent for a moment, then said. “ _My name’s Harry, what’s yours?_ ”

The snake bobbed its head once, before settling on the ground before Harry, apparently having looked its fill. “ _I am the one who lives under the rock at the base of the wall on the far side._ ”

Harry blinked. “ _Huh, that’s a… good name._ ”

“ _Your name is very short_ ,” the snake said.

“ _Yeah_ ”, Harry grinned. “ _I guess it would seem so. We um, humans don’t really go in for long names._ ” Harry paused, looking around. “ _Are there no other snakes here?_ ”

“ _Not really_ ,” the snake said. “ _There was an adder that lived in the long grass behind the cold metal, but I haven’t seen him in a long time. Perhaps he was caught and killed. Humans don’t let adders live very long._ ”

Harry tilted his head, “ _Yeah, that’s probably true. But you’re not poisonous, right?_ ” Harry asked.

“ _I’m a grass snake._ ” The snake said proudly.

“ _So that’s a no?_ ” Harry prompted, not entirely sure.

“ _Of course not,_ ” The snake said. “ _We’re actors._ ”

“ _Actors?_ ”

“ _Yes, we play dead. I’m very good at it, I can get blood to come out of my nose._ ”

Harry was surprised into a laugh. “ _That’s, that’s impressive._ ”

“ _I don’t suppose you could do it,_ ” the snake said snootily.

Harry remembered lying on the floor of the Forbidden Forest. 

“ _No_ ,” he said shortly. 

He didn’t say anything for a little while, lost in his thoughts until he felt a cold nudge at his fingers. Looking down, he saw the snake moving forward. “ _May I?_ ” It said. “ _You’re very warm._ ”

It didn’t really wait for an answer, just slid up onto Harry’s hands.

For all that Harry had the ability to talk to them most his life, he’d never actually held a snake before. It wasn’t at all slimy like he’d imagined it to be, just cold and smooth. He could feel the muscles in the snake's body contract and release as it moved himself up onto Harry’s hands. Harry let the snake run through his fingers.

He’d always hated his ability to talk to snakes, even before he’d found out about the Horcrux. Or maybe, ever since second year, which made sense considering everything that had happened, but he supposed it wasn’t really fair to hate snakes themselves. After all, that boa in the zoo had been alright.

“ _So why did you want me to come?_ ” The snake said after it had settled itself to its satisfaction in Harry’s hands.

“ _Oh, well. I wanted to know if you’d understand-_ ”

“ _Why wouldn’t I?_ The snake said, sounding affronted.

“ _No, not you._ ” Harry tried to explain. “ _I mean, i wasn’t sure if I could still speak parseltongue you see. I thought I might have lost the ability._ ”

“ _Hm. That happen often to speakers? Forgetting how to speak?_ ”

“ _No,_ ” Harry said, “ _just me._ ” 

He glanced down at the snake, but it seemed content with this explanation.

Harry re-settled on the grass. Well, that answered the horcrux question pretty definitely. Also the magic question, he thought, realising this would have probably been a more sensible way to test than destroying all the light bulbs. Too late now anyhow.

That meant he could possibly direct the basilisk, but it might also completely backfire if it only listened to the heir. He wasn’t sure about the thought of having to contend with an angry basilisk. He’d probably have to do something about it eventually. Before second year ideally. 

Harry sighed. The basilisk was probably his best bet, either alive and chomping, or dead and the venom milked. The latter was probably the safest way to do it, he thought. There’s got to be an easier way to kill a basilisk than shoving a great sword through his mouth. Wasn’t there something about roosters? He cast his mind back. “ _The rooster's crow is fatal to a basilisk._ ”

“ _The who now?_ ”

Harry glanced down and realised he’d said that in parseltongue, not English. “ _Um sorry, I was remembering something my friend once said._ ”

“ _Got a lot of them do you?_ ” the snake asked.

Harry felt a little offended. “ _I do actually, some really great ones._ ” Except, as he said it, he wondered if that was true, they weren’t his friends here, they were complete strangers. His spirits sank.

“ _Suppose you don’t have much time for snakes then,_ ” the snake said in a miffed voice, and flexed, moving out of his hands. Harry realised, far from insulting him, the snake had somehow been insulted itself, and, feeling bad, he reached out to keep the snake from leaving.

“ _Hey, I didn’t mean it like that. Of course I have time for snakes._ ”

The snake just sniffed, his head twitching.

“ _Here, look, do you want some, um, water?_ Harry asked, not entirely sure what grass snakes ate. “ _You can come inside if you like._

The snake was silent for a moment, then nodded its head. Harry unfolded from the ground and walked back to the house, looping the snape around one hand so that he could pull the door closed behind him.

He poured some water into a dish and placed it and the snake on the table. 

“ _I have to destroy things, you see,_ ” he said, figuring talking to a snake was probably a step up from talking to himself.

“ _What things?_ ” the snake said, pausing in its drinking.

“ _Um, bad things, they’re dangerous objects._ ”

“ _Like poison,_ ” the snake said knowledgeably.

Harry nodded. “ _Yes, quite a lot like poison really, a slow acting one. Anyway,_ ” he looked down at the snake. “ _I know where one of them is and I know a way to destroy it. I need to use the venom of a very dangerous snake. And well…” he tailed off._

_“ _You’re thinking like a human faced with an adder._ ” The snake said softly after a moment. _

_Harry frowned, then realised what the snake meant. “ _Yes,_ ” he said, feeling unaccountably ashamed. “ _It really is dangerous. It’s, well, a magical snake you see._ He said hesitantly._” And since the snake didn’t protest the existence of magic, he continued, “ _Its gaze will kill you and it’s venom has no cure, at least I don’t think so, and also it’s about as big as this house,_ ” he finished, raising his hands above his head.

The snake finished drinking and curled in upon itself. “ _Seems quite formidable_.”

“ _Yeah,_ ” Harry said, slumping back in his chair.

“ _But a rooster crow will kill it, you say,_ ” the snake said, tilting its head again to fix Harry with one dark eye.

“ _Oh, yes,_ ” Harry said perking up. So that wouldn’t be too hard to do really.

“ _Can you speak to this snake?_ ” The snake asked.

“ _I think so, I mean, it’d understand me? But I don’t think it would have to obey me, you see-_ ”

“ _Why would it have to obey you?_ The snake interrupted, affronted. “ _I certainly don’t have to. That sounds quite unusual, being bound to obey humans. Even speakers. I can’t get behind that._ ”

“ _Oh well._ ” Harry paused, “ _when you put it like that._ ” He glanced at the snake. “ _You know, you’re pretty well spoken for a snake._ ”

The snake reared back a little, then sniffed again. “ _You’re appallingly dim for a speaker,_ ” he said, but Harry thought if he had been a human he might have been smiling.

“ _You should meet my teacher,_ ” Harry said, “ _he thought the same-_ ” And then he remembered Nagini’s strikes against Snape, and the thump his body had made against the side of the boathouse. 

The snake unfolded from beside the plate and slid round to Harry’s side of the table. “ _You are a bit strange for a human.”_

Harry laughed softly and without humour.

“ _Pick me up,_ ” the snake demanded. 

Harry smiled and leant forward and picked the snake up, cradling it softly in his hands.

“ _I think you should speak to the snake,_ ” the snake said. “ _Ask it if it wouldn’t mind helping you destroy these poisonous things. As to the murderous gaze and being as big as a house, well, you’re a great deal bigger than me, but I didn’t decide you needed to die for my own safety, did I?_ ”

Harry privately thought the snake couldn’t have done much to him even if he had, but out loud he conceded the point. “ _All right. I’ll hear what it has to say,_ ” he promised. He had no idea how he’d be able to do that safely. Maybe with some roosters under _silencio_ , ready to go. Still, he felt that the snake was probably right. He didn’t know how the basilisk felt about killing people, and while it had kept a fairly murderous monologue running the whole time, well, fifty years between meals and anyone might get cranky. “ _Still,_ ” Harry said. “ _If it wants to kill people, I’m reserving the right to get those roosters to crow._ ”

The snake rubbed its head against Harry’s thumb. “ _Fair enough,_ ” it said.

The question of the basilisk now settled in Harry’s mind, he moved on to the horcruxes.

“ _One, like I said, I can get to. But the others are going to be trouble._ ”

“ _How so?_ ”

 

“ _Well, one of them is under an extremely strong curse,_ ” he said, thinking of the ring and Dumbledore's blackening hand. “ _Maybe more than one curse, I don’t know. I’m not going to be able to get it by myself._ ” Even if he studied all the curse books he could find, if it tricked Dumbledore, he didn’t have much hope of defeating it by himself. No, he’d have to get outside help for that one.

“ _Then another is in a vault belonging to one of my enemies._ ” After a slight detour to explain the concept of a vault to the snake, which led to Gringotts and a quick primer on Goblins...

“ _Can you not make this enemy give you access?_ ” The snake asked? 

“ _Well, how?_ ” Harry asked, shying away from the memory of _Imperius_

“ _I don’t know._ ” The snake said. “ _Be persuasive, like with the big dangerous snake._ ” 

“ _The basilisk,_ ” Harry said, “ _and we still don’t know how that’ll go down. But no. She hates me and she’s insane, but also she’s in prison right now anyway. So she probably doesn't have access to her- hey._ ”

“ _What?_ ” The snake perked up.

“ _She’s in prison. She can’t have access to her vaults in prison. What happens to the property of people in Azkaban?_ ”

The snake unsurprisingly did not know, and equally unsurprisingly had a number of opinions on what should happen to the property of dangerous humans.

“ _While regional snake sanctuaries and a legally enforceable ban on domestic cats sounds great, and don’t think I don’t realise how tough it must be for you with Mrs Figg’s cats running around, I’m pretty sure that’s not how it goes. I could find out though._ ”

Yeah, Harry thought, I can definitely find out. Because before she was a Lestrange, Bellatrix was a Black. And Harry was pretty sure he was the Black heir. He was in the previous time at least, he wasn’t sure when Sirius made a will, but, he realised with a sudden flash of insight, it didn’t matter, because he’d get Sirius out and then Sirius could open the vault.

Provided that was how it worked. He’d have to check. There was always the chance that goblins didn’t give a crap about human laws and would let a convict access whatever assets they liked.

Harry remembered his Firebolt. “ _Oh damn._ ”

“ _Hm?_ ” The snake said sleepily, having started to doze in the warmth of Harry’s hold. 

“ _Oh, I just realised, I might not be able to get at it after all._ ”

“ _Oh,_ ” the snake said, settling back to sleep.

Sirius was still head of the Black family, even if Bellatrix could in theory access her vault, Harry could get there first. Probably. If he got Sirius out. Which he was going to do anyway, he insisted to himself. But which was made even more urgent considering horcruxes. Plus the locket, he thought, remembering Kreacher’s initial hold on it.

Ok, he thought, taking a breath. Ravenclaw’s diadem is easy, the locket is easy once Sirius is free, the cup probably also, if not then it goes to the bottom of the list with the ring. That leaves the book, Nagini and me.

He glanced down at the snake. Nagini was definitely going. He remembered Snape once more. Then he realised he was going to be in classes with Snape soon. That was going to be awkward. Maybe he could try and leave a slightly better initial impression than last time.

Voldemort must have found Nagini over the summer after Quirrell, he thought. So if I could deal with him before then, he’d never find her and never make another horcrux. If I can be sure that was what happened, he thought, leaning back. No, it must be. Because Bertha something or other, from the Ministry, was the death that powered the horcrux, I’m pretty sure.

He stroked his thumb gently over the snake in his lap. He was about ninety per cent sure, but with Voldemort, maybe it wasn’t worth the risk. Which meant it would be safer to let Nagini be made into a horcrux and then go after her. That was in his fourth year, the dreams. But he had to do it before the Tri-Wizard Tournament, he nodded to himself. No way was he letting Voldemort get a body again. Much easier to take on the wrinkled, old man, baby-thing that he’d been, than the frankly terrifying dark wizard he’d become.

Of course, Harry sighed, if he took Wormtail out of the picture, which was definitely the plan and wasn’t going to change, he nodded to himself, but … _when_ he did, then that would change things. Maybe Crouch would act alone. Maybe someone else would help him.

“Well,” Harry sighed, glancing down at the snake who seemed to be asleep. “Problem for another day,” he said softly.

That left him, which he wasn’t thinking about, and the journal. He definitely didn’t want that coming anywhere near Ginny. He’d have to intercept it before somehow, try and be in the bookshop at the right time, then take it straight down and chomp. He grinned, it would serve Tom Riddle right.

Harry sighed, but what about the cave. Making plans to destroy the horcruxes… shouldn’t he try to get home instead? Or should he try to improve things here? Was this his chance? Could he do both? Get the horcruxes then leave? Or leave Dumbledore instructions for the horcruxes and escape? 

He didn’t know what he should do. He wanted to save all the people who died in the future, Sirius, Remus, Tonks, none of them deserved to die and if he could do something now to save them. He had to. Harry realised. He couldn’t leave without doing something.

But what that something was… whether it was the horcruxes only, or staying and fighting all over again. Harry sighed again, letting his eyes fall shut. Well, until he got to Romania and took a look at the cave, he wouldn’t know if there was any way back. So after making contact with the Wizarding World, that had to be his second priority, and as long as he was stuck in Britain, he’d do what he could about the horcruxes. 

Harry sat there for a while, going over his plans and circling his thoughts until the sun started to angle towards the horizon, making its slow summer descent into darkness, and Harry heard the lock move in the front door. He stood, realised he still had the snake in his hands and rushed to the back door. “ _You’ve got to go,_ ” he hissed. “ _My family will not be happy if they see you here. They’ll kill you for sure._ ”

“ _Oh fine._ ” The snake moved sluggishly from his hands as it woke up.

“ _Go, go,_ ” Harry urged, stepping outside and crouching by the hedge, depositing the snake on the ground.

“ _See you round, Harry_ ,” the snake said.

Harry smiled. “ _Yeah ok,_ ” he said, unable to remember the snake’s name. He rushed back inside and had just closed the door when Aunt Petunia stalked in. She still had her coat on and had clearly rushed in here to find him.

“What did you do?” She demanded.

Harry, wondering if she read guilt in his face, tried to look innocent.

“I went outside for some fresh air,” he said. “That’s good if you’re feeling sick,” he tacked on, remembering the story.

Aunt Petunia didn’t seem convinced, but she went to divest herself of her coat, and Harry took the opportunity to wash up the plate and run himself a glass of water.

He wondered when the light bulbs would be found out. He glanced out the window, probably he had an hour or so before it got dark enough, he thought. Dudley was already glued to the TV, Vernon following behind him, and Harry found himself walking towards the stairs before he remembered and turned to his cupboard. He wished he’d thought to grab the book earlier and he lingered at the foot of the stairs until he saw Petunia eyeing him. Giving it up, he ducked sharply inside, pulling the door closed behind him.

He realised, after his eyes adjusted to the darkness, that he’d forgotten to have dinner. He thought he better try his luck now, pre-lightbulbs, so he exited again and walked softly down the hall. Petunia had joined the others in the living room, but she turned as Harry peeked around the doorframe, a sixth sense notifying her to his presence.

“Um. I haven’t had dinner?” He said, nervousness turning his statement into a question. He was blaming his ten-year-old body on his nerves. He hadn’t been afraid of the Dursleys in years. It was some kind of unwelcome side effect from being small and wandless and back in time.

Petunia’s lips had thinned, but, apparently feeling generous thanks to the house still being standing, she told him to take one of the canned soups from the cupboard.

Harry left before she could take it back, and using the chair, got a can of tomato soup, had the can open and the soup on the hob in double time. He cut himself a generous piece of bread and, remembering Hermione, grabbed an apple from the fruit basket (that no one ever used) and tucked it into his hoodie pocket. The soup didn’t take long to heat, and Harry poured it into a bowl and sat at the kitchen table, dunking the bread in until it was gone. He washed up, less frantic now that he’d had a chance to eat, then walked past the living room with a ‘goodnight’.

He glanced over his shoulder at the living room, and, perhaps in defiance of his earlier nervousness, he made for the stairs, stepping carefully on the outside of each step, and across the hall to Dudley’s second bedroom. He crept across the floor, carefully avoiding toys, especially careful of scattered Lego, and slid the book out from the shelf. Then, retracing his steps, back down the stairs and into his cupboard.

“Success,” he whispered with a grin. 

Changing into his pyjamas, and folding the hoodie up around the apple, he tucked himself under the covers, marvelling again at how tiny he had been as a ten-year-old, and started reading.

Within moments he was lost in a magical world nothing like his own. He would have happily read until he fell asleep, but luckily some sensible part of him noticed the silence as the television switched off. A second later, the book was under his pillow, hs light was off (the only bulb in the house not to have exploded) and he was steadily feigning sleep when the cupboard door was tugged open, And Uncle Vernon dragged Harry out with a roar.

His Uncle’s angry face had rapidly gone beyond red and was now purpling. At least, Harry thought so, it wasn’t so easy to see in the dark.

“What did you do to the lights, boy?” Uncle Vernon shouted, punctuating each word with a shake of Harry’s shoulder that made his glasses start to slip down his nose.

“Um.” Harry hadn’t actually bothered to think of an excuse, and while the desire to say, I magicked them away, was compelling, he didn’t really fancy the consequences. Uncle Vernon had never beaten him, but there was always the chance that this would be the time. “I don’t know.”

He said, figuring ignorance was probably his safest bet.

“You don’t know.” Uncle Vernon roared, and Harry, seeing the pulse thrum in his Uncle’s neck, started to feel a little more apprehensive. He really hadn’t expected it to be this much of a deal. Usually, it was, Cupboard. No dinner, by way of punishments. Perhaps Uncle Vernon really hadn’t liked the thought of Harry at home alone.

“There was a power cut.” Harry said, suddenly, “I mean, a power surge and then a power cut. I don’t think it was just us, some of the other houses went out to,” he lied shamelessly. “I cleaned up all the glass.” And he looked over at Aunt Petunia, standing in the doorway to the living room. “I didn’t think you’d like the mess Aunt Petunia, honest.”

He looked up at Uncle Vernon, whose fingers were digging painfully into Harry’s shoulder, but the shaking at least had stopped. Uncle Vernon’s eyes were screwed up small and dark with hate, and Harry felt a wave of weariness pass through him. 

He hated this. Being subject to these people, to their mindless hatred of him. Whatever they thought about magic and magical people, the way they treated him was wrong. It was wrong. He felt a thickness in his throat and an ache beneath his ribs. They were supposed to be his family. It wasn’t right.

He ducked his head, unable to look at Uncle Vernon any longer. He’d never thought about it before, not really, not properly. Hermione had said things, and he’d looked at the Weasley family and he’d longed for what they had, that welcoming, warm emotion that layered the Burrow. But it wasn’t until he’d held Teddy and looked down at his aquamarine hair and felt the tiny, precious, fragile life cradled in his arms that he'd realised... The Dursleys were sick. What they did was wrong. No child should live like this.

Perhaps something in his miserable slump had made him seem trustworthy, because Vernon finally released him, flinging him towards the cupboard so that he hit the door with a bang.

Harry, stumbled upright.

“Get in." Vernon said. "You’re not getting out ‘till Monday.”

Harry, the fight entirely fled from him, just nodded and shuffled back into his cupboard, pulling the door closed behind him. He heard quick, heavy treads, and the awful sound of the lock sliding home.

It seemed the final indignity, and Harry turned in his bed, clutching his pillow to his face and silently screamed out his rage and misery.

Eventually, long after the others had gone to bed, Harry finally slipped into an uneasy sleep.


	3. Chapter 3

Harry woke before his family, and lay on his small bed, looking up at the underside of the stairs. He’d named the spiders that had made their homes in the cupboard with him, but with the spread of years between his true past, he couldn’t remember if the large spider settling in the centre of its web above him was Des, or one of his descendants, Daphne and Rick. (Their names having been loaned from a soap Petunia used to watch, and which Harry would hear through the door.) Arbitrarily dubbing him Rick, he watched the spider curl its legs beneath itself and grow still.

He was trying not to think too hard about yesterday, though the bruising on his shoulder was aching something fierce. He didn’t know why he could fight so fiercely and desperately against Voldemort, and yet the sight of his Uncle in a towering rage made him mute and still. An ugly part of him called it cowardice, and the slow whisper, _freak,_ circled the back of his mind. He shook his head, pressing back against the pillow. Whatever. It didn’t matter. All that mattered was not letting it happen again. Yesterday could be excused on account of sudden onset time travel, but he wasn’t going to let it happen again. Forget waiting for Hagrid to bring him his letter. He was getting it first thing and then he was getting out of here. He had enough money to stay at the Leaky Cauldron, hell, he could change it into muggle money and stay at a hotel. Except he couldn’t. He realised. Because he was a child. Damn it.

Well fine. He’d buy a tent and rough it. It wasn’t like he wasn’t used to camping after last year, and he was going to be Horcrux hunting soon anyway. The thought of going back to that miserable, frantic existence, the depth of gloom that had hunger over them for the last year, made Harry turn on his side and curl up into a ball, his chin brushing his knees.

“It won’t be like that,” he whispered to himself. “It won’t.” But without his friends, he couldn’t see how it was going to be any better. He missed them. Oh Merlin, he missed them.

He was going back to Romania, he decided. If he couldn’t find his cloak in his vault, he’d buy one and he’d fly all the way to Romania. He’d find the cave and he’d… He stopped there. He couldn’t leave, not if he had a chance to save everyone.

Harry pressed his eyes shut. Who’s to say he’d save anyone? What if he made it worse? What if someone on Voldemort’s side caught him and Legilimised him? He’d never managed to get his Occlumency shields to do much, and he was no match for a true expert. Hell, all they needed to do was force some Veritaserum down his throat.

He felt the heaviness in his limbs return, that same one that had shrouded him at Grimmauld place the past few months, that made his feet drag and his eyelids heavy. The one that said. Why wake? Why get out of bed? Why do any of it? If it hadn’t been for all his hated callers, he wouldn’t have left his room at all. It was probably the only reason he hadn’t closed his wards. Because deep down he knew the alternative was worse.

But here there was no one, no one to fill his days with busyness, no one to make him leave his bed.

Except that…. Except that… He turned and looked up at Rick the spider. Except that here, his bed was in the cupboard. He couldn’t stand it. The walls of the cupboard pressed in upon him, the air hot and close. He’d never hated this space before, in fact, he’d always found some comfort in knowing that here he was, in some way, safe from his family’s attention. But now, seeing it as he did through eyes almost a decade older.

He hated it.

Harry took a breath, held it, then let it out slowly, closing his eyes. A few weeks ago, at Grimmauld, he’d woken early in the morning from a nightmare, a formless, ugly thing that hadn’t left him until he’d kicked his way out from his covers and stumbling, walked around the room until the lingering emotions had literally been walked off. He’d made himself a cup of tea, and pushed the kitchen window wide open to let the morning air inside, and, for whatever reason, on whatever burst of strength in that moment, he’d opened the book to a random page. 

Small things, the book had said. Break your day down into small, manageable tasks. Don’t tackle it all at once, it’ll overwhelm you. Start simple, start small. Small successes grow into bigger ones. Be kind to yourself.

That was when he’d slammed the book shut. The final words swimming uneasily in his stomach. But, Harry shook off that remembered feeling and tried to focus. Small tasks. That he could do.

He could… he could find out when Monday was. There, that was good. Then he’d know when he’d have his freedom back. He could ask Aunt Petunia when she let him out to use the bathroom.

He could ask her about breakfast. He could drink water from the tap. He had that apple from yesterday, that was good too. And after that, well, after could deal with itself, he thought, Mondays and water would be enough for now.

Resolutely not allowing his emotions to tangle him up, he turned on the light, then he reached down for the book under his bed.

He read the same paragraph three times over before getting back into the story, and as soon as he heard shifting from upstairs, he read the next paragraph three times again before giving up. He was too tense, his shoulder still aching. He didn’t want to be here, hell, he didn’t even want to wait for his letter.

Harry tucked the book under his pillow and wrapped his arms around himself as the house woke up around him.

Aunt Petunia came down first, and he heard the sound of cooking. Then the stairs creaked under Uncle Vernon’s weight and Harry repressed a shiver, then, angry at himself, he deliberately unfolded and awkwardly made his bed, before changing into his clothes and sitting back down.

He heard the rumble of Uncle Vernon’s voice, then the louder noise of the radio. Snippets of the news filtered their way through the cupboard door. Not long later, he heard Uncle Vernon come out, the jangle of his keys, and “I’ll see you tonight, Petunia.” Then the slam of the door. That made it a weekday, Harry thought. Which didn’t tell him exactly when Monday would be, but it told him it wasn’t tomorrow or the day after. Harry grit his teeth. He didn’t want to wait that long.

The sound of Uncle Vernon’s car faded away, and Aunt Petunia pulled open the cupboard door. “Get up-” she stopped short, as Harry, already dressed, calmly exited the cupboard. He stood looking up at her silently. She loomed over him and yet again, he wished he wasn’t so small. Though he knew who to blame for that, he suddenly realised, staring up at Aunt Petunia with a dark flicker of anger. 

“Well go on then”. She snarled, “Use the toilet.”

“Can I shower?” Harry asked, not sure when this body had showered last, but wanting the extra time outside the cupboard either way.

Petunia glared down at him. “No,” she snapped. “You showered last week I’m not wasting water on you.” And she reached out to give him a shove with her sharp-fingered hands. 

Harry, instinctively flinching away, made for the stairs and rapidly disappeared up them. He fancied his chance at breakfast was looking slim. Clearly, his story about the power cut hadn’t been believed. Or maybe she was regretting leaving him here alone. He sighed.

He made short work of washing, drank as much water as he could from the tap and made for the stairs when he heard Dudley start to move about in his room. Dudley had always been a fairly early riser as a child, he remembered. It wasn’t until he became a teenager that he’d slept in. He’d always derived too much satisfaction from jumping on the stairs. Harry wondered, with a shiver, if Dudley had imagined the stairs breaking and landing on his cousin’s chest. Certainly, that was what Harry had feared. Harry gripped the bannister tightly. When he’d been younger, he’d even hidden under the bed in the mornings, sure Dudley would fall through at any moment and crush him. 

Harry realised he was breathing quick and low, his heart pattering like he was about to sprint down the hall and face a thousand dark wizards at the end of it. His hand clutched emptily for a wand that wasn’t there. He had to force himself to stop, lean back against the wall and breathe out. A long low exhale, and a slow, steady inhale. He had to do it a couple of times before he could get his breathing back under control.

This wasn’t good, he thought. None of this was normal. Maybe it was the time travel. Maybe it had messed with him more than he thought. Just because he couldn't sense any spell residue, didn’t mean it wasn’t there. He felt wrong, buffeted by emotions that had slept for so long. Harry pushed away from the wall. All the more reason to get out of here, he thought. Get back to the wizarding world.

Harry poked his head around the kitchen door. “Can I have breakfast?” He asked, not hopeful. Aunt Petunia was watering her plants on the windowsill and she glared at him from across the room. “Definitely not. Get in your cupboard,” she snapped.

Harry shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “When is Monday?” He asked, wincing internally. Questions were never a good idea in this house. 

“What did you say?” Petunia said sharply, her hand clenching on the watering can. Harry eyed it warily, remembering a similar incident with a frying pan. “I just wanted to know how many days ‘till I’m-

“If I had my way you’ll never be let out you ungrateful little freak,” she said, her voice rising sharply as she descended upon him.

Harry, giving it up for lost, scuffled quickly backwards, staying out of reach until he was in the cupboard. Petunia slammed the door shut beside him, and he saw Rick the spider lose its place and slip down on a gossamer thread, swaying as he heard the lock click shut.

Harry let out a long, angry breath. Forget this. He thought. I stopped Voldemort. I broke into Gringotts bank. I’ve faced dragons, plural. I can get out of this damn house.

**

Morning came and went, along with it Dudley, leaving for school (jumping up and down for good measure on the stairs) and Harry ate his apple for lunch. Normally lengthy stays in the cupboard were interspersed with, well, school for one, and they weren’t enforced with the lock, but clearly, his Aunt and Uncle had decided he’d be staying home ‘sick’ today. It happened sometimes. well, quite often if he was honest. School had always seemed more a privilege than a duty. Thought, with Dudley and his gang, not much of a privilege after all.

Still, he was sure school was still in session. Casting his mind back, he was sure Dudley's birthday had been towards the end of summer term. Of course, that would make today Monday which meant Uncle Vernon had been talking about Monday week as the end of his imprisonment, and… screw that.

Harry snorted. No way was he staying that long. 

He felt a little better now, now that Dudley and Uncle Vernon had left and Aunt Petunia was sat in front of the T.V. catching up on Des and Daphne’s latest. He’d had some time to think things over. The letters hadn’t come until almost his birthday. That was weeks away. He wasn’t waiting that long. He had no real idea how he’d get to London, but he could find The Leaky from Charing Cross, and from there to Gringotts, and well, once he had money he could go anywhere. He was pretty confident he could use the ‘my parents are buying my school supplies’ excuse in various shops, hell, it had worked for Malfoy in Malkins, hadn’t it? And wow, that was a distant memory. Except it wasn’t, it was an as-yet-not-happened event. Bloody time travel.

Anyway, he pulled himself back on track. The point was, he wasn’t waiting. He was getting to London and he was getting there soon.

Harry half unfolded his legs out in front of him. He was sitting on the floor of the cupboard, his back against his bed, his feet pressed against the wall under his shelf where his meagre selection of toys sat. He remembered once being small enough to stretch out fully. Tiny legs straight against the floor.

It was strange, being in here, all these memories that had been pushed down into nothing suddenly expanding, like a concertina, one leading to another to another. It was hard not to get caught up in them.

He shook his head. He wasn’t going to. The memories didn’t matter. He had to focus. If he wasn’t going to wait for Uncle Vernon to unlock him next week. He had to get himself out, and since there was no way to reach the lock from this side of the cupboard. (He’d tried enough times before.) The only way out was with magic.

He’d thought back and forth and all around it, there was no other way. He had to do wandless magic, only, it couldn’t be undirected magic, like the stuff with the light bulbs, this had to be deliberate.

He didn’t really know where to start.

He didn’t fancy trying another floating charm, between yesterday and the Dobby incident, he didn’t have the fondest memories of that charm in this house, but he was racking his brains to think of something equally simple that he could use. Maybe _Lumos?_

Harry settled his weight and raised his hands to his knees. He focused on his palms. Then, pausing, he reached up and turned the light off. Darkness flooded the tiny space. “Okay,” he whispered, cupping his palms again. Narrowing his eyes, focusing on that remembered feeling of magic in his wand and the rush of power out of his fingers with the light bulbs, he pressed down on that feeling, trying to narrow it, direct it, focus it…

“ _Lumos,”_ he whispered.

Nothing happened.

“ _Lumos, lumos, lumos,”_ he repeated, growing more frustrated each time. Until finally he slumped back and dropped his hands. This wasn’t working.

He supposed it was a bit ridiculous to think he could just pick up wandless magic in a few hours as a child. For all that he knew _stuff_ (not enough stuff, clearly) his body was still that of a child, with a child’s magical core and strength.

Maybe he was going about this wrong, he thought. Maybe it was accidental magic he should be trying for.

The last accidental magic he’s done was disappearing the glass at the zoo, but, thinking about it, that had probably been the most directed of his accidental outbursts. The rest had all been sparked by some dramatic emotion, his embarrassment about his ridiculous shaved head, his fear of Dudley and his gang, his anger with Mrs Bower when he turned her wig blue. It was emotion that fueled accidental magic.

In fact, it was emotion that fueled a lot of magics, Harry thought, look at the Unforgivables, you had to want control, or cause pain, or even death and for a less dark example, he shifted uneasily, what about the Patronus? You had to focus on positive emotion, it was the emotion, as much as the incantation and the will of the caster, that directed the spell.

Resolute, Harry raised his hands once more. He closed his eyes. Imagined the darkness around him, the darkness of his cupboard, and then he cast his mind back further, to the darkness of the cave. The cold. The wind. He imagined the noise, the pain as the rocks struck against him, the way the wind stole his breath when he tried to scream. The way the darkness had pressed in against him like a physical thing. He thought about wanting light, wanting it desperately, wanting light as an escape, a way out of the darkness that surrounded him.

“ _Lumos,”_ Harry said softly, and bright, blinding light flashed so fast and so strong, that he saw red on the inside of his eyelids and he flinched back, his bed creaking as he shoved it backwards.

The light slowly began to fade away, subsiding as the emotions Harry had gathered together gradually began to slip away.

Harry blinked owlishly at the tiny, spinning lights that clustered in the corners of his cupboard. His spirits lifted and he let out a laugh as the light turned to a warm yellowish glow and slowly, slowly faded away until all that was left were afterimages in his eyes.

Harry flexed his hands softly. They felt, stiff somehow, like when he’d been out on the cold all day, then come into the warmth. Like his joints had suddenly swollen up. He reached for the light switch and turned it on. His hands looked the same as ever, pale and small, but the stiff feeling didn’t disappear. 

Harry leaned back, a smile growing on his face. He’d done it. He’d done wandless magic. Another laugh escaped him, and he pressed his fingers against his mouth, to stifle the sound, looking warily at the cupboard door.

He was panting a little and he breathed deep to catch his breath. He felt energised, but tired too, like his emotions and his magic were thrumming with energy, but his arms and hands were twitching with muscle fatigue. Aches all up his hands and wrists. He hoped he hadn’t overdone it.

Moving carefully, he climbed up onto his bed and spread his hands out on the mattress.

That was it, that was how he’d get out. He’d magic the door unlocked and then he’d be free.

There was more to decide, how to get to London, what to do there, but Harry ignored those questions for now, the smile coming back to his face. He’d done magic, real, directed wandless magic. He was a wizard, and he didn’t have to stay here any longer. There was a whole world out there for people like him. There were people out there who mattered. His real family. And his smile grew so wide it hurt.

 

**

Harry drifted into a light doze, half daydreams inspired by the sounds on the television wound into his thoughts. Eventually, sometime in the afternoon, he roused himself. His hands felt more like normal now, maybe a little sensitive when he pressed them into fists. He shook them out, hoping he hadn't overdone it, but there was no way of knowing until he tried. He decided it’d be best not to practice anymore, anyway he was pretty sure he’d have no trouble generating an emotional reaction to his imprisonment in the cupboard, he thought with a flicker of anger.

Harry unclenched his fists, massaging his hands slowly.

He didn’t want to waste his whole day sleeping though. It reminded him too much of the grey fog from Grimmauld Place. He sat up in his bed and crossed his legs under him. He’d need money, which meant he’d need to steal it from Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon. He wasn’t sure where Uncle Vernon kept his wallet, in his pocket perhaps? But Aunt Petunia kept her purse in her brown leather handbag, so that would be his priority. He wasn’t sure when the last train to London was, he thought the early morning train might be a safer bet, only, a child travelling alone early in the morning might attract more attention than in the afternoon when he could pretend he was with some other family. Unless… Harry tapped a finger against his lips… Unless he pretended he was going to school. It was still term time after all. He could pretend he was off to some posh boarding school on the train. He smirked, not far from the truth actually.

Only his clothes would give him away, he thought. It was almost a shame he didn’t have his horrible dyed grey uniform, but that wasn’t going to happen until much later this summer, and Harry wasn’t waiting. He’d have to chance it. If someone asked, he could say this was his sports kit or something. The hoodie might make that seem vaguely true, and he thought he had a very old tracksuit bottom that might fit him better than the slightly newer jeans he usually wore. 

He nodded to himself, he thought the trains started around five in the morning. Uncle Vernon usually went off to work at six, so that gave him some time to get the money and get out. He didn’t want to hang around the station too early in case anyone saw him and asked questions, best to get directly on the train.

He hadn’t had too much trouble on his way home from London after meeting Hagrid the first time, he remembered, but then, that hadn’t been early in the morning, so who knew. Still, in his experience, adults tended not to care as much as they thought they did about scruffy kids wandering around alone. Unless he was in a shop. He’d had enough experiences of being followed around shops by forbidding staff to last a lifetime.

He’d get the money at around four, it was about a half hour walk to the train station, and then he’d take the first London train he could find. Once in London, he thought he remembered how to get to Charing Cross, and anyway, there were tube maps everywhere.

The question was, how to make sure he was up at four. He didn’t have an alarm clock, and while you could set one magically with a variation on _tempus_ he couldn’t exactly do that either. He couldn’t really risk an alarm clock anyway, it might wake up the others.

He’d have to grab a clock and hide it in here, and then just stay up all night. He couldn’t risk sleeping through it.

Harry thought about where the clocks in the house were. Dudley had a Superman clock in his room. Harry remembered when Dudley had decided he was too old for ‘stupid superheroes’ and had dropped it from his window to smash on the patio tiles. Of course, Harry had been the one to clean it up.

Would he notice if it went missing? He’d notice when his alarm didn’t go for school, but Harry intended to be long gone by then. The alternative was the heavy gilded one in his Aunt and Uncle’s room, but he suspected Petunia’s eagle eyes would notice if he took that. That left the wall clock in the kitchen, and the mantelpiece one in the living room, both of which would be safer, but neither of which he thought he’d be able to get to without someone noticing. Dudley’s at least he could grab on his way to the loo. At least, he could as long as he was let out before Dudley came home. Harry wasn’t sure when that was, but he was pretty sure it was getting into the afternoon now. He pressed his ear against the door. Aunt Petunia had left the T.V. on while she did the chores, he thought she was ironing right now, he’d heard the dryer stop spinning earlier. He’d have to try and get her attention.

Harry knocked on the cupboard door. “Aunt Petunia,” he called. Silence. He tried again, a little louder, and the sound of the T.V. suddenly rose in volume as the living room door opened. He heard the sound of footsteps, and then the cupboard door swung open.

“What?” Aunt Petunia spat down at him.

Harry, staring up at her, felt an overwhelming wave of rage, which, being more welcome than fear, he held on to, though he tried not to let it into his voice. How dare she make him beg for this, he thought. 

“I need to go to the toilet.”

Aunt Petunia looked down at him for a beat, and in the silence there was a blare of laughter from the T.V. She craned her long neck back to look at the living room, then stepped away from the cupboard.

“Hurry up then,” she said over her shoulder, already walking away.

Harry wasted a moment glaring at her back before he realised what he was doing and turned and shot upstairs.

He looked across the landing as he turned to enter Dudley’s room and caught sight of the door to Dudley’s second bedroom. What if there was a clock in there, he thought. He couldn’t remember if he’d found one the first time around, but, it was possible. Moving on silent feet, he crept to the room and pushed the door open.

He made his way quickly to the cupboard and began sorting through all the junk. Most of the toys were as broken as he remembered, but there were the odd items, like the books, that had simply been discarded for being ‘uncool’ and there, under the broken game boy, next to the Action Man doll with his head ripped off, was a small, old-fashioned wind-up clock.

Harry grinned. He picked it up carefully. The two bells on either side rattled slightly, and Harry glanced warily to the door before looking at the clock. The key was still in the back, Dudley must have just preferred Superman over this old-fashioned thing, he thought. More fool him, Harry thought the clock was rather grand, a bright enamelled red, with large gold bells. Maybe it was the Gryffindor colours, but Harry liked it instantly. It felt serendipitous, he thought, his mind rolling the long word over. It was a good omen.

Harry crept out of the room and back to Dudley’s door, creeping inside and over to the bedside table. He wound the clock in his hands until it grew stiff, and then spun the hands to match the time, before stealing silently out of the room and to the toilet.

He hesitated on his way back down, glancing into his Aunt and Uncle’s room. If her handbag was in there, he could grab it now, he thought. He glanced downstairs, there was no sign of Aunt Petunia, and, leaning over the bannister, he saw the living room door was shut.

Harry turned and had just reached out to touch the door handle to their room, when the noise of the T.V. suddenly got louder and he spun back sharply, shoving the clock deep into his hoodie pocket. Breathing quickly, he pasted what he hoped was an innocent expression on his face, and strode down the stairs, waving his hands as if he was flicking water off them.

Aunt Petunia was standing in the hallway looking up at him with a disgusted expression on her face. “Use a towel next time, you repulsive boy,” she said and jerked her bony finger towards the cupboard door. Harry, not risking a request for food, just nodded and shuffled in, careful to shield his pocket from her view. He pulled the door shut behind him and waited, hoping she’d just leave, but he heard her come closer, and the lock slid home.

Well, fine, he took the clock out carefully and tucked it under his bed. He was prepared now.

It seemed to take years for the Dursley family to go to sleep. First Dudley returned home, loudly whining about some new game that he wanted and why hadn’t she given it to him for his birthday and how it was _so unfair_ that Piers got to play it first. Then later, after Dudley had tired himself out, the T.V. changed over to the sound of cartoons, and Petunia moved into the kitchen, food smells wafting out and making Harry’s stomach rumble. Then later still, Vernon arrived home, the T.V. stopped, and Harry heard the familiar sounds of the family dining at the table coming muffled through the cupboard door.

He leant back against his bed. It _was_ familiar, he realised. It was like some unchanging fact. The family eats. Harry sits in his cupboard. Even when he was allowed at the table, he mused, he was never part of the family. Theirs was never a circle that included him.

He scratched at the wooden floorboards underneath him. It wasn’t that he wanted to be part of their family, and he didn’t need it anyway, he was fine on his own, but… hearing it now, after all this time. It felt, strange. Jagged somehow, like there was something sharp in his chest, catching at his lungs on every inhale.

He coughed, his throat feeling thick and rubbed at eyes that had grown itchy.

“It doesn’t matter,” he said softly to himself. He’d be gone soon, and he’d never have to listen to them again.

He let his head fall back against the bed and he watched Rick, who had, at some point managed to snare a fly, and was even now enjoying a dinner of his own.

Harry had remembered the blood wards. He wasn’t a complete idiot. He knew there was a reason Dumbledore had put him here, but the thing was, Harry just didn’t care. The blood wards only worked as long as Harry considered this house, his aunt’s house, as his home. And he didn’t. This place was… a relic. An ugly relic from a time long past. It wasn’t his home. Hogwarts was his home, Grimmauld Place, horrible and dark as it was, had started to become his home. This was just the place he’d grown up.

He wondered if the blood wards had broken the moment he’d come back in time. Or maybe when Vernon had grabbed him yesterday and he’d met his angry little eyes. Or maybe it was right now, in this moment, that he gave up whatever protection Dumbledore had given him. Harry wondered if there was a little silver device spinning out of control in Dumbledore’s office right now. 

He remembered Dumbledore explaining the wards to him. _Where his mother’s blood dwells._

He closed his eyes. “I’m sorry mum,” he said and his mind flicked back through memories until he was standing in the Forbidden Forest once more, surrounded by the shadows of the people that should have raised him. “I’m sorry, I just can’t. I can’t do this anymore. I can’t be here. I can’t go through this all over again. I won’t.” 

He opened his eyes, and blinked away tears, surprised to feel them running down his cheeks. “I don’t believe you wanted this for me,” he whispered. “You can’t have. You must have known what she’d do. What it would be like.” 

Aunt Petunia had hated magic from the moment her childish letter to Hogwarts had been rejected. His mother had to have known. She can’t have wanted him to grow up here.

He curled up and rubbed his eyes with the cuff of his sleeve. He wished he knew what they had planned. Had they really only chosen Sirius as he guardian? Maybe Remus, he thought, but of course, Remus was a werewolf and no way would the Ministry let a werewolf raise the Boy Who Lived. His parents couldn’t have guessed that was what Harry would become. But it was a war, they had to have made plans, even a will? 

They were so young, Harry sighed, not much older than him. It wasn’t like _he’d_ made a will. He thought about Teddy. But then, Teddy had so many people who loved him. Harry let his chin rest against his knees. So had he, he supposed, and so many of those people were killed in the first war.

Well, whatever his parents had planned or not planned, none of it really mattered now. Fact was, whether he felt the blood wards go or not, they were gone and that meant he wasn’t any safer here than anywhere else. All the more reason to get out.

He raised his head, he could still hear them talking, and desperate to block the sound out, he reached under the bed for his book and began to read.

**

Harry read deep into the night, as his family gradually got ready for bed and disappeared up to their rooms and the sounds of the house gradually silenced and faded away. Finally, his eyes grainy, he sat up with a wide yawn, realising his head was dropping dangerously close to the book spread on his pillow. 

Harry rolled off the bed and pulled the clock out from under it. It was a quarter to four. A thrill rushed through him and he shivered at the thought at the might have kept reading past time. He placed the clock on the shelf and stood to stretch as much as he could in the cramped space. 

He closed his book and rested it on the bed and, as silently as he could, he changed into his chosen ‘uniform’. Then, finished, he looked around the tiny space. If all went well, he’d never come back here. He looked at the little treasures he had on the shelf, the toy soldier he’d taken from Dudley, the knight on the horse and the little wooden house he’d found in Dudley’s second bedroom and the Gryffindor coloured clock. After a second, he gathered them up and placed them next to the book on the bed. Then he stripped the pillowcase from his pillow and carefully wrapped everything up together. It looked, well it looked a lot like the kind of thing a kid might carry if he was running away, he thought uneasily. He stopped and emptied them back out, tucking the toys and the clock into his pockets, the book under his arm. Then he turned to the door.

He took a breath. Clutched the book in his hand and closed his eyes. Freedom. He thought. Freedom from this house. Freedom from these people. Away, away, away, away. He thought, over and over, circling his mind. He dragged up those memories that had been lingering all day. Reaching down, deep within himself he remembered up all the knocks and the slaps and the accidental shoves; every time Dudley chased him; every time Petunia spat ‘freak’ and ‘boy’; every time Vernon grabbed and shook him; every question he bit down and swallowed; every simple moment of familial affection he was shut from. All of them, rising and cascading through him on a great wave of… not anger, he realised, but anguish, pure, unadulterated misery. He shot his hand out in front of him, his fingers spread wide, and he knew there were tears on his face. He had to grit his teeth to keep the sob inside, swallowing it down and, with a final intense focus, “ _Alohomora,”_ he choked.

There was a beat, a kind of thrum of magic and vibration that shivered through his bones and into the soles of his feet, powerful, unstoppable, stretching to breaking point. Then, like a soap bubble popping; the door disappeared.

Harry stood panting, his heart beating in his chest, his hand still stretched out in front of him. He finally let it drop. His grip on the book loosened and he had to clutch at it to stop it from falling to the floor. He crept forward slowly and leant carefully against the doorway, looking around.

Yup. The door was gone. Completely gone. Like it had never existed. A hysterical laugh threatened to escape, and Harry had to swallow the noise down again. Gasping, he raised his sleeve to scrub the tears from his face.

His emotions were in a flux, shuttering from raw anger to fierce joy. He felt unmoored, and more than a little shaky, but, stumbling forwards, he knew he couldn’t wait. Putting the book down carefully on the floor, and flexing his aching fingers, he crept towards the hall and sorted through the coats. 

He’d hoped Aunt Petunia might have left her handbag downstairs, but no luck. He slid his hands into Uncle Vernon’s coat pocket, but other than a couple of crumpled receipts, there was nothing. He stuck his head in the living room, but he couldn’t see her bag anywhere.

Harry jangled softly as he walked towards the stairs, and he realised the noise was coming from his laden pockets. Bending down, he laid his toys and the clock into a little pile next to the book and crept upstairs. 

Carefully avoiding creaks, Harry made his way painfully slowly to his Aunt and Uncle’s room. Harry gripped the door handle tightly and a painful spasm shocked down his hand. Harry gasped and let go. His hand looked normal in the dim light from the streetlamps outside, but he remembered how they’d looked normal after the _lumos_ too. He flexed his fingers softly, wincing. He’d just have to be careful, he thought, and he reached out with his other hand. 

Taking the door handle, he turned it by slow increments until the door opened. Worried the door would creak, he took a breath, and then pushed it the teeniest bit, then a tiny bit more, until he finally had a crack big enough to slip through. Finally, he thought, one benefit to being tiny.

Inside the room, Harry crouched down, to avoid being seen from the bed, and stepped away from the door. Uncle Vernon was snoring loudly, and he couldn’t hear Aunt Petunia at all over that, but she had to be asleep, she would have noticed the door otherwise. 

Harry waited for his eyes to accustom to the gloom, but it was extremely dark and Harry realised he was going to have to crack the curtains a little or he wouldn’t be able to see anything.

Moving slowly, he crept across the carpeted floor to the window, and, from a crouch beneath the window, he pulled at the corner of the curtain. The rings clinked together as they moved, and Harry stopped, holding his breath, his eyes wide open on the sliver of the bed illuminated by the light from outside.

Uncle Vernon kept snoring, Aunt Petunia didn’t move and Harry breathed a sigh of relief. He pulled the curtain a little more until he judged there enough light, and then he crept forward into the room. He’d hoped Aunt Petunia would leave her bag on her vanity, but creeping over to it he saw nothing new from the last time he’d checked. He looked around, then went over to the wardrobe, shooting a glance behind him, before gently pulling the door open. Aunt Petunia’s dresses were hung up in a row, her shoes lined up beneath it. Lying next to them, he saw with a thrill, her best handbag, the one she used for the flower show and Mrs Clark’s garden parties down the road. Harry knelt down and gently, so gently, unzipped the bag, softly pulling it open.

He grimaced. Empty.

He checked the inner compartments, but no, nothing, not even a few stray coins.

Harry stood silently and pushed the doors shut. He side-stepped over to the next wardrobe and pushed it open. Uncle Vernon had his suits hung up and his ties in a line along one door, Harry glanced at the other door and saw a small boy staring back at him. He gasped and jumped a foot in the air, almost letting out a scream before he realised the boy was him, his reflection in the mirror. He pressed his hand to his mouth and looked over his shoulder. Vernon still snoring, Petunia still sleeping. Thank Merlin. He pressed his hand against his chest and took a deep breath. Get a hold yourself, Harry, he thought. He looked at his reflection again with a tiny grin. 

This was slightly terrifying, and so far fruitless, but sneaking around dangerous places at night was almost second nature by now and this was the first time anything had felt familiar here in the past.

He gently closed the wardrobe door and turned to face the room. It had to be the bedside table, he thought with a sinking feeling.

Harry tiptoed towards the bed and the snoring bulk of Uncle Vernon. Moving slowly and carefully, he reached out for the drawer on the bedside cabinet and pulled it open. It stuck halfway. Harry grit his teeth and stepped closer reaching his hand inside. The gap wasn’t big enough for him to fit his whole hand, and he couldn't feel anything up at the front of the drawer where he could get to it.

He glanced at Uncle Vernon out of the corner of his eye, and then, bracing his stiff hand on the bedside table, and the other on the drawer, he tugged hard. The drawer shot out suddenly. Harry stumbled backwards. The table rocked and the lamp upon it started to tilt, falling towards Uncle Vernon’s head.

Fear shot through Harry’s limbs and his darted his hand out. He caught the lamp an inch from Uncle Vernon’s head, his fingers screaming in pain at the tightness of his grip.

Harry grit his teeth, wincing against the pain and froze, not even risking breathing as Uncle Vernon suddenly stopped snoring. Harry’s heart was beating wildly in his chest, he could hear the thrum of his blood in his ears. This was it. He was caught. It was all over, he thought. He stared at Uncle Vernon’s face, willing him desperately not to wake.

Uncle Vernon snuffled, his face contorting, his nose twitching and then he tossed, heaved himself up and Harry plunged forward to raise the lamp out of the way as Uncle Vernon turned away from his wife towards the side of the bed where Harry was frozen in place.

Harry stared at his Uncle as, slowly, then growing louder, Uncle Vernon began to snore again.

Harry righted the lamp, then pulled his arm back, relief shuddering through him. He dragged in a long breath, filling his lungs, before letting it out, very quietly, between his lips.

That was close. He waited a beat, then forced himself to step back towards the bed. Carefully, moving even more slowly than before, he reached his hand into the drawer and felt around for the wallet. He found keys, (that made noise when he touched them, Harry froze, then very carefully moved his hand away) some papers, the coins he’d found before. But no wallet.

Where was it?

Harry crept back, leaving the drawer open and padded softly around the bed to Aunt Petunia’s side. He had the strong feeling she’d be the lighter sleeper out of the two of them, so he crept especially slowly towards her bedside table and reached out for the drawer, his hand closing on the knob as he sent a quick glance at her face. Aunt Petunia’s eyes were open.

Harry felt like he was having a heart attack. He froze again, his hand glued to the drawer That was it. She’d caught him stealing from her, oh Merlin. The Dobby incident was nothing to this, she was going to kill him. He let go of the drawer, ready to run, when he realised she wasn’t moving. She wasn’t getting up, towering with rage, wasn’t shouting, wasn’t, when you came right down to it, awake.

Harry stared at her for a second longer, before taking a hesitant step back towards the bed. He raised his hand and waved it in front of her face. Nothing. She was asleep. Harry took another shuddery breath of relief and reached for the draw again. Still keeping a wary eye on his Aunt’s creepy wide-eyed, sleeping face, he pulled the drawer open. This one came out smoothly, and Harry slid his hand in, feeling around, pulling out a hairbrush and some bottles of hand cream. A packet of pills a different packet of ‘nope-not-ever-thinking-about-those’ that he dropped back into the draw instantly and wiped his hand on his trousers in disgust.

But no money. No purse. No wallet.

He was screwed. This whole plan was over before it started. Without money he had no way to get to London, that meant he was stuck here, in Privet Drive, and the cupboard _didn’t have a door_. 

Harry stepped away from the bed and looked around wildly. What was he going to do? Did Dudley have money? He was only a kid, he didn’t remember Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon really going in for pocket money much, they just bought Dudley whatever he wanted. He might have lunch money, but enough for a ticket into London? Not likely.

Harry took another step back. Bloody Hell. He really was screwed. He’d have to go to Mrs Figg, that was all there was for it. He’d have to go and tell her, she’d tell Dumbledore, Dumbledore would get the whole story and then Harry would have to kill himself. Again.

Harry started shaking his head. He knew he was over-reacting, he knew this wasn’t really the end of it all, but, between the bloody lamp and Aunt Petunia’s eyes (that were _still_ staring at him) and the door disappearing and the emotional seesaw from the wandless magic, he just. It was just. He was just... He stared around the room, his gaze bouncing from the bed with his Aunt and Uncle on it, to the vanity with Aunt Petunia's makeup box, to the curtains around the window, to the armchair in the corner with the bag on it, to the door to the... wait a second. Armchair with a bag on it? Harry turned slowly back, unwilling to believe… but yes. Right there in front of him, right there next to the door, the first damn thing he would have seen on his way in, was Aunt Petunia’s leather handbag sitting on the armchair in the corner of the room.

Harry, inwardly doing somersaults with glee, walked quickly forwards and undid the catch. He pulled the bag open and reached in, his fingers closing around Aunt Petunia’s matching leather purse.

The leather was cool under Harry’s fingers and he felt a thrill as he carefully opened it and slid out a couple of twenty-pound notes. Then, after a second hesitation, he pulled out everything she had, looked like about eighty pounds.

Good. Harry thought. It’s the least they could do.

He dropped the purse back in the bag, then finally remembering to be quiet in his triumph, he crept back to the door and slid through the gap.

Not wanting to risk noise in closing the door after him, Harry stepped carefully on the edges of the stairs on his way down, folding the money up in his trouser pocket. His toys and the clock went into his hoodie, the book under his arm and Harry went straight to the front door, undid the latch and quietly pulled it open.

He stepped out onto the front step.

He wasn’t sure how long he’d been in his Aunt and Uncle’s room, but the sky had started to lighten, early summer dawn long past, and the world around him was a washed out grey. For a moment, Harry remembered leaving this place once before, his trunk rattling behind him. But that time had been temporary, he thought. This time is for good. And he reached behind him and pulled the door shut.

The door closed with a slam, and Harry jumped at the noise. “Oops,” he whispered, and he took off down the street at a run.

**

Harry managed to run all the way down Privet Drive and Wisteria Walk before he slowed down, barely out of breath. One thing he could thank the Dursley’s for, he guessed, or Dudley at least. Nothing like being chased to make you run fast. But he wasn’t being chased right now, so he thought he’d be all right to walk. If Aunt Petunia woke up, she probably wouldn’t check her purse straight away. If his luck held, they wouldn’t notice he was gone until Aunt Petunia got up to make breakfast and saw the cupboard. Harry laughed, the noise reaching up into the silent night air. The cupboard! Oh Merlin, he’d love to see their faces when they discovered that. Harry grinned defiantly.

He kept up a quick pace for most of the way, only slowing once he reached the row of shops near the station, and he remembered he hadn’t wanted to arrive early. He took his clock out of his pocket. It was almost five, right on time, he thought, and he continued to the station, only to find the first train wasn’t for another half hour.

Harry sighed and walked over to the ticket machines. Maybe it was a good thing, he thought, it looked like the station wasn’t manned this early in the morning, he guessed it was too small, and that meant fewer people asking questions. 

He printed off his ticket, tucked the rest of the money back into his pocket and almost went through the barriers before he noticed the vending machine. Harry’s stomach suddenly and urgently made its hunger known. Harry realised he’d completely forgotten to raid the kitchen in the rush of his grand heist and he walked quickly to the machine, punching the numbers for some juice, a packet of crisps and the biggest chocolate bar he could see. He wouldn’t have minded a sandwich, but the vending machine didn’t have any, so he figured these would do. He grinned, he had to be the only ten-year-old in the world who’d rather have a sandwich with something green in it than a chocolate bar.

Stuffing the food into his now overfull pockets, Harry went through the barriers and walked all the way to the end of the platform. He sat down on the ground behind a pillar where he couldn’t easily be noticed and tucked into the food.

Twenty minutes passed slowly enough. Harry finished all but the drink and walked over to the bin to deposit the rubbish. He noticed there were a few more people on the platform now. All on his side of the platform, going into London, early commuters he guessed. They were closer to the station building and he managed to avoid being seen by ducking back behind his pillar until finally the announcement echoed around the platform, and craning his neck, Harry saw the train approach.

Harry stood, dusting off his trackies, and shaking the cold out of his limbs. The train slid to a noisy stop and Harry walked quickly to the nearest door, reaching for the handle and hoping no one was looking his way. The door was awfully heavy for his ten-year-old’s muscles, but he managed it with a bit of heaving and slipped into the carriage.

He took a seat by the window, tucked next to the luggage rack and stared outside, willing the train to move.

His Aunt and Uncle would be up by now. They would have discovered the door, and probably the theft too. He could have left them a note, he thought. Could have let them know what he really thought of them. But, well, he sighed, who cared? He was never going back. Even if he was stuck here to live his past again. 

He was struck with a sudden sense of unease when he thought about how Dumbledore had compelled them to take him back after third year, but he shook his head. He wouldn’t let them get his wand this time, he’d… He’d get rid of the trace. He thought with a sudden shock. That’s what he’d do. Or wandless magic. He remembered, Right, that was the resolution he’d made, learn wandless magic. But after trying it twice, no, three times now, he realised that was probably going to be a long-term undertaking. There had to be a simpler way around the trace. Or, hell stuff like Fred and George’s sweets that he could use on muggles.

Whatever, he’d find a way around it. Maybe he’d just not tell anyone he’d left home. Maybe Dumbledore didn’t have any way of checking. He could always write to Aunt Petunia and tell her to lie to Mrs Figg, threaten to come back if she didn’t. It’s not like she wanted him there any more than he did.

Yeah, he nodded to himself. It’d work out. It’d all work out. This was his chance, he realised. If he was living the past again, this was his chance to live it right.


	4. Chapter 4

Harry woke with a start to the sight of someone looming over him. Stifling a shout, Harry kicked out, his wand hand coming up empty. He felt the thrum of magic under his skin, and opened his fingers, letting the disordered chaos of magic fly out from between them. The person stumbled back with a low shout, and Harry jumped to his feet, standing on the chair and looking wildly about.

He didn’t know where he was, his vision wavered. He was closed in on either side, a cold wall behind him. He thought he saw the Death Eater start to rise and he panicked, no choice but to sprint forward. He launched himself over the prone body, barely missing a grab for his legs, Harry ran for the gap of light he saw, tripping and half falling out of the… train?

He stumped to a stop, panting heavily on the platform. The train. Right. The train. That was where he was. He recognised this place, Paddington Station. He’d made it to London.

Swallowing roughly, Harry turned back to the carriage, where he could see the conductor — definitely not a Death Eater — slowly picking himself up off the ground. Harry shivered, anxiety twisting his insides. He didn’t want to stick around and, shoving his hands into his pockets, he began to walk quickly away from the train towards the ticket barriers.

His heart was still beating a drumroll in his chest and he felt twitchy and exposed like he could be attacked at any moment.

He didn’t want to think about what his magic might have done to that muggle. He didn’t want to think about why he’d reacted like that. The man had been looming over him, had reached for him. Unease skittered over Harry’s skin and he shivered, avoiding the eyes of the attendant standing at the barriers.

Harry pulled his ticket out of his pocket and jammed it through the barrier, his hands shaking. It seemed to take forever for the machine to beep and go green and the barrier to open.

Harry stepped quickly through and kept walking, acting like he knew where he was going. He heard voices from behind him and he stepped up the pace, practically running towards the escalators sat beneath the blue and red underground sign.

Down in the darker space before the tube barriers, Harry joined a line of people waiting to buy tickets and he had the presence of mind to stand a little too close and to the side of a young woman as if he were with her.

He focused on trying to calm his breathing.

He’d forgotten his book, he realised. He must have left it on the seat on the train. The thought of it sitting there abandoned, the fact that he’d lost one of the few possessions he had right now seemed an unbearable misery, and Harry had to blink quickly to stem the tears, ducking his head.

No, no. He couldn’t do this right now. He had to get it together. He felt his emotions scattering and whirling inside his chest. His breath growing short.

Harry closed his eyes. This had happened once or twice at Grimmauld. Usually, he just suffered through it, the memories, but he couldn't afford that now. Harry’s eyes snapped open as the people around him moved, and he realised he was boxed in. The queue shuffled forwards and Harry went with it, the back of his neck prickling. He didn’t want to go into the underground like this. He realised he was crouching slightly, ready to run, and he forced himself to stand back upright, even though his entire body protested. 

The thought of the train carriage, all those people pressing in, all those eyes on him. It made him want to vomit. But he had no choice. He glanced up at the escalator. He couldn’t go back onto the platform now, they’d get him for attacking that conductor, and then it’d be ‘where are your parents, son’ and back to the Dursleys. 

The woman in front of him stepped away, and Harry walked quickly to the machine and after a moment’s hesitation, selected a single for zone one. He’d learnt his way around London a bit better in the summer before sixth year (before everything went entirely to shit, he thought miserably,) though, the machines looked a little different and the prices were all much cheaper now.

He focused on counting out change and trying to remember what a single ticket had cost him last time. Or, he tried to think calmly, had he bought a day pass the last time he was on a train and just shuttled around back and forth on the lines. His beating heart began to slow, and he managed to take a breath that wasn’t just a gasp.

Harry thought about trains. Riding on trains. He didn’t think about the white train station (he didn’t, he didn’t.) Harry’s hand shook and he dropped his coins on the floor. Wincing he crouched quickly to scoop them up and slid them into the machine to pay.

He’d preferred the rail to the tube. He thought. Much less cramped. He nodded to himself, feeling extremely shaky and sure that any moment the person behind him was going to say something. Harry waited uncomfortably for the tickets to print, staring unseeingly at the little tube map printed on the side of the machine. Finally, they shot out the dispenser, and Harry grabbed them, sidestepping quickly out for the queue.

He hurried to the barriers and fed the ticket in, grabbing it as it came out the other side and walking through.

Harry realised he’d not paid any real attention to the map, for all that he’d been staring at it, and despite his familiarity with the train system of Greater London, he hadn’t actually memorised the tube map. Not wanting to waste any more time, he just followed the signs for Bakerloo Southbound figuring that would take him in about the right direction.

Harry heard no sounds of pursuit, and as he hurried along with other commuters down the passage towards the train station, he began to believe he’d made it out all right.

He was still shaky, and he didn’t like the press of people around him but they were all moving, that was good. The walls were curved and closed in, but there was space ahead of him and behind.

He tucked his hands back into his pockets, putting his ticket in with the rest of his money. He still had the clock and his toys, they hadn’t managed to fall out when he leapt out of the train, so that was something.

The platform was a busy crush. He hadn’t anticipated the number of morning commuters, and Harry shied away from other people, winding his way to the far end of the platform. He caught sight of a man in a stiff blue suit giving him an odd look. Harry tried to put his shoulders back, and look unconcerned like he did this all the time, every day. Like this was nothing new. Ignoring the part of him that wanted to dive for the chairs and curl up behind them.

The shadowy maw of the tunnel gaped darkly, and Harry turned his head away, staring at the poster opposite advertising a getaway holiday complete with sandy beach and palms overhead. He tried to imagine himself on that sandy beach. The hot sun shining down. Was the businessman coming towards him? He didn’t dare look. Was he trying to get his attention? Was he reaching into his jacket? What if he had a wand? That would be a great disguise for a Death Eater, he thought with a sudden burst of fear. Disguised as a muggle. Did they already know he’d left his Aunt and Uncle’s house? Harry turned to stare at the businessman. He wasn’t looking at Harry but Harry could sense a trick. He could be waiting for his moment, watching out of the corner of his eyes.

Harry needed to go, needed to get off this platform, but where? There was no exit here, not unless you counted the tunnel. Harry looked over at it. The ‘no access’ sign was just hung on a chain. He could jump over the gate and sprint down into the darkness. Then he saw it, far away in the depths of the tunnel, two unholy glowing eyes. The cascading rumble that sounded horribly like the roar of a dragon. Harry stared as it got closer, the dragon. No. The train. It was a train, he told himself, nothing more than that. No dragon, no monster. He forced himself to look away as the hot air came whistling from the tunnel mouth, the rumble so loud it went through his bones.

This was it. He had nowhere to go, the businessman was reaching into his jacket, his hand disappeared, gripped something. He turned towards Harry and Harry saw him pull out a wand.

Harry shouted and jerked backwards, tripping over Dudley’s stupid, cast-off trainers.

Someone lunged for him and before Harry could stumble away, they had him by his shoulder. His bruised shoulder that Uncle Vernon has so recently shaken to pieces.

Harry raised his hands to protect his face as the man who had him said…

“Hey kid, watch your step.”

Harry blinked and slowly lowered his hands.

The man who had grabbed him looked down concernedly at him. Harry looked past him and saw the businessman step on to the train, in his hands, he clutched a mobile phone. Not a wand.

“You getting on?” The man who had stopped him from falling asked kindly and Harry blinked again as he refocused. The man had soft salt and pepper hair, and his dark face was split with uneasy concern as he glanced between Harry and the soon-to-be-closing train doors.

“Yeah, yeah, sure.” Harry gasped and stumbled upright quickly slipping out from the man’s grip and stepping onto the train. The doors began to beep and he shuffled forwards quickly so that the man could get on behind him.

“Almost missed it,” the man said, grinning down at Harry, relief showing in his eyes.

Harry nodded awkwardly, still feeling shocky. He’d seen a wand. He had seen a wand. But, He looked down the carriage towards the other doors. He could just about see the businessman between the gaps in other people’s bodies and he wasn’t paying Hary any attention. Just looking down at his phone and tapping away at it. It was definitely a phone.

“You okay, kid?” It was the man again. Harry turned back to him and forced a smile on his face that felt starchy and out of place.

“Yeah,” he said. 

The people around them were studiously avoiding their eyes, while obviously listening in. Harry realised they were breaking the code of the underground, but, catching the man’s eyes, he could see he was gearing up for a ‘where are your parents?’ question.

Harry forced his sluggish brain to think. He didn’t want to think. He wanted to act, to grab a wand and start flinging spells about. All these people around him, Harry felt like he was under attack.

Harry forced himself to focus on the man in front of him. His grey suit and slightly shabby rucksack, his scuffed shoes. He seemed normal. Something like Remus, perhaps in his shabbiness and the concern still in his eyes. The thought made something in Harry’s chest unspool, just a little, a tiny fraction of relief amongst the chaos. The man’s mouth opened, the question forming and...

“Dad put me on the wrong train,” Harry blurted out.

The man’s mouth closed.

“For school, he always forgets and now I’m going to be late for rugby.” He said, mentally channelling Draco’s ridiculous accent, and tossed his head with an eye-roll that felt painfully forced.

The man smiled down at him hesitantly. Harry could see he didn’t entirely buy his story, but as they stood there Harry could feel the train slowing down and the next station was announced over the speakers.

“This is me,” Harry said, trying to sound cheerful and unconcerned and he slipped past the man the second the doors opened, disappearing into the press of bodies leaving the train.

He walked steadily with the tide of people, then left them as they exited the platform and continued instead down the platform to the other side.

The train doors closed, and the long snake of the train slid past him into the tunnel. 

Harry finally took a deep breath and stepped back to lean against the curved wall. This was all, way too much. He needed to get a grip. There were no Death Eaters here. No war, no Voldemort even. The only threat right now was being sent back to the Dursleys.

Harry opened his eyes. The same advert stood across from him, with the same beach and the same palm tree. Harry snorted, then raised his hand to rub at his eyes under his glasses.

He took a deep breath, resettled his glasses and brushed his fringe back over his forehead, straightening his shoulders. He could do this. The man, or maybe the memory of Remus, or maybe both had helped him throw off his, moment, his shock, his, _whatever,_. It didn’t matter what it was called, he thought uneasily, it was over now. His breathing was almost under control and his heart wasn’t trying to beat its way out of his chest.

Harry glanced about. He didn’t seem to have attracted much attention here, probably because he wasn’t shuttling down the platform like the hounds of hell were after him, he thought ruefully.

Harry stayed leaning against the wall a little longer until his breathing was back to normal, and the shakiness in his limbs had almost entirely passed.

Looking back up the platform, he saw a tube map on the wall and walked over to it, tracing the Bakerloo down all the way to Charing Cross. Perfect. He was on the right line after all.

The next train came with a rumble that Harry determinedly did not relate to dragons, and Harry hopped onto the last carriage.

The rest of the ride was uneventful, Harry even managed to snag a seat and sat with his feet hanging off the edge, and his hands tucked into his hoodie pocket.

He was already exhausted and the day had barely started. He just wanted this whole trip to be over. He wished he hadn’t fallen asleep on the train, but after staying up all night, he was exhausted, in fact, he had to pinch himself to stop from falling asleep where he was, and in the end he stood back up and gripped the pole by the door, not wanting to risk missing his stop.

Eventually, the train pulled into Charing Cross and Harry exited and climbed to the surface, bidding goodbye to his ticket as the machine disappeared it into wherever used tickets went and Harry escaped out into London’s early morning light.

Charing Cross was as busy as ever, even on a weekday before the shops were open, but Harry had no trouble navigating the familiar route down the road towards the Leaky. Before entering, however, he pulled his hoodie up over his head, letting the peak fall forwards and put his face in shadow. He checked his fringe a final time and then slipped through the door.

The inside was as gloomy as he remembered, but he stepped quickly away from the door so as to avoid a silhouette and walked quickly along the bar to where Tom was standing filling someone’s order.

“Hello, lad,” Tom said when he caught sight of him, having to crane over the bar to see him properly. “Bit young to be having a drink, eh?” He asked with a laugh and the man he’d been serving laughed too, a tall, gnarled fellow with a tufty grey beard and wooden beads strung about his neck.

“Um, yeah,” Harry said, a little peeved. The ‘obviously’, went unspoken. “I was hoping you could open the passage to Diagon Alley for me, sir. I haven’t got my wand yet, you see.” And then he added, “I’m doing my Hogwarts shopping.” For good measure.

As he’d hoped, the word Hogwarts seemed to work like, well, like magic and Tom nodded agreeably enough and disappeared around the back.

Harry stepped around the customer, who had already disregarded Harry in favour of his drink and Harry made his way unnoticed to the back door. 

How different from the first time, he thought. Without Hagrid’s bulk to announce him, or perhaps it had been a stray sight of his scar? Either way, no one here should know what he really looked like. His face, his glasses and his hair all became uncomfortably recognisable in the future, but right now he was just any other scrawny kid. The thought was suddenly liberating. Harry had never been able to walk down Diagon Alley like just any other kid. Not once. His first entry into the Wizarding World had tied his face to his name. Never after that moment had he not been recognised at least once, and usually many times.

He didn’t quite know how to feel. 

Tom obligingly tapped the bricks, but before Harry could get through, his hand descended towards Harry’s shoulder. Harry twisted sharply out of the way before he could touch him, but regretted it when he saw the flicker of surprise on Tom’s face.

“Ah.” Tom hesitated. “I suppose your parents will be along shortly?” He asked. 

Inwardly harry cursed. What was it with people asking him about his parents? It wasn’t like anyone had cared before. He stifled his frustration. He supposed he’d been with a guardian, or at the very least with Ron and Hermione the other times. A child alone was more suspect.

“Oh, they’re muggles,” he said, hoping to sound breezy and unconcerned. “I’m going to meet them in Leicester Square once I’ve done my shopping. I can come back this way can’t I?” He asked, figuring everyone liked to be given a chance to show off their knowledge, even if knowing the way out of Diagon Alley wasn’t exactly a secret.

Still, it seemed to work. Tom smiled proudly. “Oh yes, main thoroughfare right here,” he said smartly.

Harry hesitated, intrigued despite himself. “Are there others then? Other thoroughfares, I mean?” he asked.

“Well, yes,” Tom said, “of course. There’s the back of Which Witch that opens onto Covent Garden, and the Troll-Toll Tunnel that takes you to Embankment.”

“Troll-toll?” Harry asked uneasily.

Tom laughed, “No trolls any more lad, not to worry, long gone from London they are, just the toll left.”

Harry decided to stop pushing his luck and risk being recognised and, quelling his curiosity, finally nodded and stepped around Tom with a quick thank you and disappeared into Diagon.

**

He’d never thought about it before, about how Wizarding and Muggle Britain had to be connected in different ways. He’d never really had to pass through them. It was mostly one or the other, and he supposed apparating, or the floo network made things simpler, collapsing distances into a question of magic, not space. But that was useful knowledge. And he’d been realising how much useful knowledge he was lacking, lately. He was adding it to the list.

Then, freeing himself from his thoughts, he looked up and took in the sight around him.

Diagon Alley in the early morning was a surprisingly calm place. None of the usual shoppers had arrived, and while a handful of places were open, including the soup cauldron stand and its great competitor on the other end, the meat pie stand, most of the shops were closed. A few of the shopkeepers were engaged with opening shutters, and Eyelops was busy with staff feeding and cleaning the owl cages, but everywhere else was quiet and still.

Harry found he quite liked it. It was a calm sort of stillness, not the dead quiet of fear, more like the gentle calm before a party begins.

Harry realised he wasn’t sure that Gringotts would be open, he hoped he could find somewhere to wait outside, but luckily, when he arrived at the bank, the doors between the pillars were wide open and Harry, uneasily reminded of his last time here, walked quickly past the goblin guards into the bank.

The atrium of the bank was almost empty of people, though goblins still bustled about, on their side of the counters, doing much the same as he remembered them doing before, writing in ledgers, counting out galleons or weighing jewels. 

Of the few witches and wizards here this early, most were at the tellers by the door, so Harry turned his feet in the direction of the far side of the atrium. He hadn’t entirely planned what to say, but as he got closer, Harry decided to just brazen it out. He had to stand on his tiptoes to see, and the goblin looked down his nose at him and blinked once, if he was surprised to find a child in the bank so early, his expression didn’t betray it.

“Um, I’d like to access my vault, please,” Harry said, feeling more than a little ridiculous. “But I don't have my key.”

“No key?” the goblin asked.

“No,” Harry replied.

“No vault.”

Harry stared up at the goblin grimly. Oh really. He thought angrily, but he put a rein on his temper and tried once more.

“I was raised with my muggle family. They told me about Hogwarts and that I ought to do my shopping, but they didn’t give me my key. I don’t know who has it.”

He wondered if the goblins kept track of when Hogwarts letters went out. He’d look pretty stupid if they turned around and asked to see it. But the goblin did no such thing. Just stood there looking down his nose at him, Harry huffed. He hated to do this, but he couldn’t think what else.

Glancing quickly from left to right, he stepped a little closer to the teller and dropped his voice, raiding his hand to his forehead.

“I’m Harry Potter, you see.” He brushed his fringe off his scar and saw the goblin’s eyes widen.

“I know this isn’t the right way to do things, but my parents weren’t there to tell me the right way.” He paused. “On account of them being dead.” He added, pointedly. 

Harry dropped his fringe back to cover his scar, stepping away from the counter.

“I really don’t know what else to do.” He said flatly, realising he was rather messing up his little innocent ten-year-old routine with his tone, but not caring enough to salvage it. He hated trading on the Boy Who Lived title but damned if it wasn’t working.

He watched as the goblin’s eyes widened minutely. He mumbled something, then jumped down from his high stool and Harry heard his footsteps patter off.

Harry sighed, and shuffled his feet. He shouldn’t get carried away. It wasn’t the goblin’s fault he didn’t have his key. And as much as he might wish to have it now, it was a good thing Dumbledore had kept hold of it, it certainly wouldn’t have done him any good in the Dursleys’ hands.

He wondered how Dumbledore _had_ got it. He’d been thinking about his parents' wishes after all. Had they left a will? Was Dumbledore some kind of guardian to him, officially?

Is thoughts were broken off as he heard the patter of the goblin’s footsteps come closer, this time on his side of the counter and accompanied by another, older goblin with wisps of white hair above his ears.

“Ma’am,” the younger goblin said, and Harry had a moment of confusion until he realised the Goblin wasn’t talking to him. “This is the customer I, ah, mentioned,” he said. Then turning to Harry he continued “this is Orgik, Head Goblin of Gringotts.”

Harry, surprised by the honorific and unsure of the correct etiquette nodded, and then, figuring it couldn’t hurt, went a step further and bowed. “Honored to meet you, ma’am,” he said, when he’d straightened back up. He had never considered what female goblins might look like. He could mentally feel Hermione’s glare on him all the way from the future, and he shuffled his feet. 

Orgik’s face was lined and stern and Harry had no idea if the bow had succeeded or not, but after a moment she flapped his hands at the first goblin “Back to your station,” she snapped. Then turning to Harry she said, “Come with me Mr Potter,” in a dry voice. 

Harry, despite being the same height, had to jog to catch up with her. Orgik moved at a fast pace, crossing the atrium quickly and nodding to a goblin doorman to open one of the heavy side doors. The door let into a long marbled hallway and Orgik took them all the way to the end. The final door had a shiny brass plate with ‘Head Goblin’ printed upon it. She opened the door, then held it for Harry to come in behind her.

Murmuring a thank you, Harry stepped in and looked around, wide-eyed. He’d never seen any of the goblin offices before. The room was panelled in a dark smooth wood, and the furniture richly upholstered in a deep purple. A desk stood in front of two large arched windows, with deep window seats piled high with books. There were shelves all along the back wall, Harry noticed as he turned, mostly filled with books and boxes and a few other curiosities. Orgik was standing by the now closed door, watching him. Harry flushed.

“Sorry, Ma’am. I was just…” he trailed off. “It’s a lovely office,” he said and then bit his lip, feeling like an idiot. A lovely office. Still, it seemed to have some effect because Orgik twitched her lips in what might have been a smile (could have been a snarl) and then walked over to her desk, gesturing for Harry to take one of the chairs opposite. Harry sat, enjoying the fact that all the furniture was about his height, for once, and inwardly grinning at the spectacle an adult human must make trying to fit into the goblin made space.

“So. You do not have your key.” Orgik said shortly.

“No ma’am,” Harry said, surprised to get straight to business and sitting up smartly in his chair.

There was silence for a moment and Harry wondered if she wanted him to fill it, or if she was simply letting him feel uncomfortable in the hopes of catching him in a lie. He certainly felt uncomfortable, he was, after all, a thief. He sincerely hoped they had no way of knowing. Surely they would have done something by now? And anyway, could you be prosecuted for acts not yet committed? Surely not.

Either way, Orgik finally came to some decision, because she leaned forward and steepled her long fingers before her. “We have a procedure for lost keys or stolen keys,” she added her teeth glinting. Harry gulped. “Your key would most likely have been stored with your parents' keys somewhere in the house at…” and here the goblin paused to glance down at a piece of paper. “Godric’s Hollow,” she said. 

Harry didn’t react. What was that about, he wondered? Didn’t everyone know where his parents had lived? They’d turned the house into a damn memorial after all. But as he watched her looking at him, he realised she was watching him just as keenly, and with a flash of insight, he realised what was going on. She _was_ trying to catch him out in a lie. All the long pauses were for him to fill.

Harry pushed his glasses up with a finger. “I can wait here for an hour if you like,” he said finally. “Or if there’s some other test I can do to verify my identity, I’ll happily do it.”

Orgik smiled and settled back. “We take security extremely seriously here Mr Potter. Rest assured, there will be tests.” Harry nodded. He supposed that answered his question about his break-in then, they must have known from the start that Hermione hadn’t been Bellatrix. He realised Orgik was talking again and forced himself to pay attention.

“The question of your key remains, however. Should any individual have taken it without your parents or your own permission, it would have instantly returned to storage here, at Gringotts.” She waved a long-fingered hand. “It didn’t which implies the key is in safekeeping, for you, at your parents or your own request.”

“I was only a year old.” Harry felt compelled to point out.

“Yes?” Orgik responded politely. 

“Well, I mean, I was a baby, how could my opinion have mattered?”

“There is no age limit to inheritance, Mr Potter. You would have had the right to grant any individual the key at any time.”

Harry frowned. He did know that actually, after all, he’d lent Bill Weasley his key to withdraw money for him once. But thinking about it now, it didn’t seem like an entirely sensible way of doing things, giving a child full financial control. Harry shook his head, it didn’t matter. What mattered was the key. It seemed like the Goblins didn’t know that Dumbledore had it. So who had given it to him? It couldn’t have been Harry, he’d been taken from the house by Hagrid, He didn’t think Hagrid had run around to find the key, asked a probably very distraught Harry if he would grant it to him and then given it to Dumbledore along with Harry. Even setting aside the question of whether Harry as a child who’d just been magically attacked, would have had the presence of mind to tell Hagrid to take the key, it just didn’t make sense. His parents must have given it to Dumbledore before, or else willed it to him somehow.

“What about a will?” Harry asked. “Could my parents have given my key to someone in their will?”

Orgik nodded slowly. “Yes. That does seem possible. That or the key is still at the house.”

Harry looked up in surprise. “But…” He trailed off. Should he admit to knowing about the memorial? He was sort of going for a semi-truth, that he’d been raised with a version of the Dursleys that actually told him things. “But isn’t it a memorial now? The house?” He asked, going for it.

“Well yes,” Orgik said. “But that doesn’t mean there are not still magical protections in place. Should the keys have been placed in a safe or magically sealed space, they would still be there.”

Harry looked at her, wide-eyed. Could that be the case? Could there be things, possessions of his parents still at the house? When he had visited, the house had just been a shell, at least, that was what it had looked like. He swallowed down a wave of longing. To have something of his parents, Something more than a single cloak. Something of his mother’s.

Harry suddenly realised his breathing had gone suspiciously thick, and he coughed to clear his throat, overcome with embarrassment. What was wrong with him? He’d never been one for crying before.

He rubbed his eyes and resettled his glasses, avoiding Orgik’s gaze.

“Is. Is there a way to check?” He asked.

“Check for the will, or check the house?” She responded neutrally.

“Both,” Harry said after a moment, raising his head to look at her.

Orgik leant back in her chair and looked at him consideringly.

“Wills are usually filed either with us, here at Gringotts.” She spread her fingers. “As you can imagine, no such filing has been made.” She settled in her chair. “If they had one drawn up by a solicitor, one imagines said firm would have made an effort to contact you.” here she paused and looked at Harry inquiringly. 

Harry, who hadn’t even realised wizarding lawyers existed, shook his head. Surely, even if they couldn’t have reached him in Muggle Surrey for whatever reason, they would have reached out to him at some point after he reached the wizarding world, he thought, but he’d never heard from anyone but Dumbledore about his wizarding inheritance, and even that really only covered his vault and the cloak. Who really owned the house at Godric’s Hollow?

“Then a will, if it exists, must too be at the house. Since the keys were not returned, we can assume they remain secure and the will also remains secure.”

Harry nodded slowly. Or Dumbledore has it, he thought. If he has my key, he must have the will, if it exists. And after he died. Harry paused, rubbing at his chest. After Dumbledore died, the will would have come to him. Since it didn’t, he sighed. There must not be a will after all.

He looked up at Orgik and tried to hide the realisation from his face. Ten-year-old him shouldn’t know any of this. “The house then,” he said. “I’ll have to go there.”

He bit his lip and tried to look innocent rather than pathetic. “I’m afraid I don’t know how to get there myself. I only have a little muggle money you see, and no wand.” Saying this, he suddenly realised how vulnerable he was making himself to a veritable stranger, and he tensed slightly in his chair.

Foolish, he thought, very foolish. What had he been thinking? Trusting they would let him get his money, trusting they wouldn’t use him for their own benefit. True, he hadn’t heard of any Goblins following Voldemort voluntary last time around, but who knew what people were capable of.

All this he tried to keep from his face, but he wasn’t sure how successful he was.

He could run, he thought, try and pay Ollivander with his muggle money and come back with a wand. Yeah, he’d feel a lot safer with a wand he thought, anxiety curling around his ribs.

Orgik’s voice interrupted his spiralling thoughts. “For a fee, Gringotts would be happy to offer our services for both transport and ward breaking.”

“Ward breaking?”

“Of course Mr Potter.” she smiled thinly. “Or did you intend to break your parents’ protections yourself.” She paused. “Without a wand,” she added delicately.

Harry suddenly realised where this was going. He was right, there were going to take advantage, just not in the way he’d feared.

“How can I pay you if I don’t have access to my vault?”

“A loan of course.” She said, smiling in a way that showed all her teeth.

Harry shifted uncomfortably. “How much?”

“An hourly rate of 50 galleons,” she said crisply, her tone turning businesslike. “Plus the standard additions for core, extended and sanguine wards and any other variation thereof.”

“Standard additions?” Harry asked, a little overwhelmed. 

“Yes,” she said and handed him a piece of paper that had been lying on her desk the whole time. Harry took it with a frown, realising he’d pretty much walked into this, and scanned it. It was a lot of galleons. He found himself hoping his parents hadn’t actually been as safety conscious as he definitely knew they had been. 

“I don’t suppose you can give me an accounting of my vault before I agree to this?”

“No key, no vault,” she said demurely.

“Great,” Harry sighed All this and Dumbledore probably had the key already. “And what if the key isn’t there?” he asked, looking up at her.

“Subject to your identity being proven, of course, we would be willing to extend a further loan at standard interest rates. “

“Which are?” Harry asked already holding his hand out for the next piece of paper.

“As you have no collateral, you will, of course, be looking at our most stringent rates and security measures.” She pointed at the paper “Thirty-six per cent APR and a fiscal vow.”

“Fiscal vow,” Harry repeated, feeling extremely under attack.

“Should you default on the loan repayment, your entire vault will be claimed in recompense.”

“Whoa, wait a second,” Harry said, dropping the papers to his lap. “My entire vault?”

“Yes,” she said impassively.

“Are you-” He gritted his teeth and looked down at where he was crushing the papers in his hands. Harry took a deep breath. It was fine. He had money in his vault. He wasn’t going to lose the entire thing.

“Is there a time limit?” He asked.

“Certainly not,” she replied, “but as you can see, interest rates will rise quarterly-”

“Yes ok,” Harry cut her off, very much done with all the financial talk. Hell, if he really was a ten-year-old. He’d be completely lost. He was pretty lost anyway. He placed the papers on top of each other and tried to smooth them out before putting them back on the desk and giving himself time to think.

Yes, he wanted to see if his parents had left anything at Godric’s Hollows. Of course, he did. He had barely any possessions from them. But the fact was there probably wasn’t a will, and his parents, therefore, must have given Dumbledore the key themselves for safe keeping. Which meant the ward breaking and the transport to Godric’s Hollow wasn’t worth it.

He sighed, his shoulders slumping. It wasn’t a priority, he thought. The priority was Romania, the cave. Once he was back in the future he could check himself. 

What about saving people? He thought uneasily.

He stared at the list of prices Orgik had given him, unseeing. Either way, he had to check the cave first. He thought, refusing to make plans beyond that.

He could use his muggle money for the wand, he thought, but it wouldn’t buy him a broom or a tent or any of the other things he would need.

He could approach Dumbledore and ask for the key, he thought. He could write to him and tell him his family had told him about magic and could he please send him the key directly. 

Dumbledore wouldn’t keep it from him, he was sure of that, but he might visit Harry, that is, visit Privet Drive, expecting Harry to be there. Harry couldn’t go back. He shook his head. No way was he going back.

He looked over at Orgik. I won’t lose the vault, he thought. I won’t be out on the street like the Dursleys always threatened. Don’t be irrational, Harry.

“Yes to the loan,” he said, “No to the rest,” and after a moment, he added, “Thank you.” Because she was, after all, just doing her job.

Orgik nodded and stood, “I will retrieve the items for the identity test, please, remain here.” And she walked around behind him and exited the office.

Harry, unable to sit still, stood and began to pace the room.

It wasn’t that he didn’t like spending money, exactly. Between his vault and the Black inheritance, he’d never had to worry about it after leaving the Dursleys. Maybe that was the issue. That money had been so far from accessible, it had been _impossible_ at the Dursleys. And he was, after all, fresh from that house. Even if it had been years looked at in one way. 

That’s all it was, Harry nodded. That and the fact that he didn’t particularly like being beholden to anyone. The thought of swearing a magical vow made his skin itch. But he’d do it. It’d be fine. He would eventually get his key, even if it took until the first day of Hogwarts. Harry stopped pacing and sat back down. 

Maybe it was right that he pay the goblins this money. He had broken into their bank, even if it hadn’t exactly happened yet, it could happen in the future. He maybe, sort of, owed them. He rubbed a hand through his hair, then flattened his fringe back down automatically. Yeah, he thought, looked at like that, it could almost be reparations.

He breathed deeply, and sat up straight, pulling the paper that dealt with the loan towards him. Most of this stuff he didn’t understand if he was honest. He knew what interest meant, and he guessed the percentage was how much he’d have to pay back on top of the loan. He wondered how much he should take. He’d always just tossed a load of galleons into a bag previously. He bit his lip again, smiling sheepishly. It was a bit stupid of him, actually, to be so relaxed about money for so long and then freak out over this, he didn’t know what had come over him.

Maybe it was because he’d been so sure he could just stroll in and get to his vault. Maybe because it was his vault. Something that he owned, that could, in a way, guarantee his safety. He was sick of being a child, reliant on other people. Harry took another deep breath, then reached across the table for a quill and flipped the paper over.

“Let’s see,” he murmured. A wand was less than ten galleons, he was pretty sure. The Firebolt had been something like 200, he thought, though Sirius had never told him exactly. That was a bit steep, maybe look for an older model at half the price. The tent, he guessed would be less than the broom, the charms on them were fairly standard, say fifty... On he went, listing clothes, food, maps and anything else he could think of that he might need on a cross-continent trip to Romania.

Plus the trace he thought. If he couldn’t get rid of that, he was going to have to pay for automatic charms for everything he might need shrunk or unshrunk or made weightless and so on. He thought for a moment and added ‘bag or trunk’ to the list.

He wasn’t entirely sure how the trace worked. He supposed he could ask Ollivander if anyone might know, he would.

At this point, the door to the office opened again, and Harry replaced the quill and folded up the paper, sliding it into his pocket with his muggle money.

Orgik entered, followed by two goblins carrying a large wooden box. They stepped up beside Harry and placed the box on the desk with a thunk. Harry watched them file out, then turned to where Orgik had again seated herself opposite him.

She rested her hands on the box and Harry felt a thrum of magic shiver through the room. He widened his eyes, whatever it was in that box, its magic was extremely strong.

Orgik shifted her hands to either side of the box and gently lifted it open. Harry ran his eyes over the carved back. The carvings were, he realised, fairly gruesome, showing hundreds of tiny faces contorted and shifting across the surface of the box. And they were actually shifting, he realised, very slowly, like a wave across the wood, all of them with their mouths open wide and silently screaming.

Harry dragged his eyes from the sight.

Orgik, who was watching his unease with glittering eyes, finally took the corners of the box and turned it to face him so that he could see, lying within it, a shining silver globe.

Harry, who was expecting something grotesque, felt weirdly let down.

He met Orgik’s eyes. 

“This, Mr Potter,” she said in a hushed voice, “is The Eye of Veritas.” Here she paused, and Harry realised she was expecting something from him said, 

“Oh. Right.”

She spared him an extremely unimpressed look “The Eye of Veritas, Mr Potter, sees all lies.” She leaned forwards. “One who is concealing the truth cannot touch it.” They are sucked within the orb and into the box.” She gestured with one finger at the wooden carvings that Harry realised cascaded over the lid and edges and into the interior of the box.

The entire thing was a single magical construct. The test and the consequences all rolled into one.

It was, in terms of a magical feat, pretty impressive, and he said as much. Orgik seemed slightly mollified.

“If you are who you say you are, merely touch the eye,” she said. “It will sense the truth and you will remain seated here. If you are lying, you will join the Lost Souls within.”

At that word, Harry had a sudden flash of unease. Lost Souls.

“So, If I’m Harry Potter, I pass the test?” he asked.

Orgik nodded, leaning back and crossing her hands over her chest.

Harry thought quickly. He had no idea how it would react to an adult him being in his younger body since they were both still him, he’d probably be alright. It was more the Horcrux that he was worried about.

He wasn’t, entirely, Harry Potter, was he? Not the Harry Potter he’d been born as. Not the Harry Potter he’d been after Voldemort was defeated. 

He wanted to be able to touch the eye. He wished he could blithely and confidently place his hand upon it, but he couldn't’. He couldn’t risk it.

Harry shook his head and leaned back.

“I can’t do it. You’ll have to find another test.”

 

“Mr Potter!” Orgik said, shooting forwards. “This is the most accurate-”

“I know,” Harry said, cutting her off. “It’s not that. I’m sorry. It’s a really good test, I just can’t do it.”

Orgik thinned her lips and stared at him. “Mr Potter, are you refusing to verify your identity?”

“No,” Harry said quickly. He really didn’t want her calling the Aurors or something. “I’m just refusing this specific test. It’s…” He looked at the carvings. “It’s too scary.” He said, forcing a quaver into his voice. “I’m only ten years old,” he said, and he wished he could make those unhelpful tears appear on demand. “I don’t know anything about the wizarding world, I don’t even have my wand, and you want me to touch a magic Eye that will suck me into a box and keep me forever.” He dropped his gaze to his hands. He had no idea if it would work. He hoped goblins had as much trouble reading human expressions as he did with goblin ones.

This whole thing was making him feel very uneasy. Hiding and lying was not at all the way he liked to go about things. It all felt uncomfortably Slytherin. But, short of refusing and storming out of here, which wouldn’t help his plan in the least, he didn’t know what else to do.

After a little space of silence, he raised his head hesitantly. “Is there another way?”

Orgik stared at him sharply, then, after an interminable amount of time, something in her expression seemed to ease and she nodded her head, reaching to close the box with a bang that made Harry jump despite himself.

Orgik stood and walked over to the bookshelves where a knife was displayed next to a stack of short scrolls. She took a scroll and the dagger then walked back to the desk and placed the items in front of him.

“This method is not as secure,” she said, “and as such we will require a further surety for the loan,” she told him, before moving round to her side of the desk.

“All right,” Harry said hesitantly, eyeing the dagger.

“You will cut yourself and place a drop of blood upon the scroll. The dagger and the scroll are both charmed, they will link your blood to the vaults owned by your bloodline.”

Harry nodded. Okay, great. Blood magic, while still veering on dark, was something he felt a lot happier about than soul magic.

“And for the surety?” He asked in a stronger voice.

Orgik tapped her finger against her lips again. “We would normally ask for magical possessions. She raised an eyebrow questioningly.

Harry thought of the invisibility cloak. Firstly no way, and secondly, he didn’t have it anyway. “I don’t have anything magical,” he said.

“Nothing, Mr Potter?” The lines of Orgik’s face settled in something like disbelief. “Surely your parents gave you-”

Harry cut her off. “No,” he said shortly. “They didn’t. I told you, I grew up with my muggle family in the muggle world. Think of something else.” Perhaps his tone was enough for her because her expression shifted back to the usual disapproving frown.

“Your house,” she said.

Harry blinked, then asked, “Do I own it then? Even though the Ministry turned it into a memorial?”

Orgik’s frown deepened, then lifted “That is a simple matter to check,” she said, and she walked over to the bookshelf again, this time to the farthest edge near the wall where there were drawers stacked on each of the shelves. She pulled out a drawer and flicked rapidly through the files, then opening one, scanned a sheet of paper quickly before putting it back. Next, she walked back towards the window and stopped in front of a small side table where a little machine stood, that looked something like an old-fashioned telephone, in fact, as Harry watched, she lifted one part to her ear then spoke into the other part.

“Ministry of Magic,” She said shortly. There was a pause, then a tinny voice babbled something down the line. “Wizarding Land Registry records request,” she responded. There was silence, then a second voice, this time with an even higher pitch responded. “Yes, Records of lot 28.3, Kiln Cottage, Godric’s Hollow. Last named owner, James Potter.”

Harry stared at her, then turned to look at the cabinet. She’d got that from the piece of paper she read. That was his vault accounting right there. He thinned his lips. No key, no vault, he thought grimly. Orgik had turned sideways to face him and he could see she knew exactly what he was thinking. He huffed and sat back on the chair. He wondered what it meant that his file was stored in the Head Goblin’s office. It certainly didn’t seem to mean priority treatment. Then he paused and rethought that. No key, no vault. And yet, she was clearly going to quite some lengths.

Harry sighed. He didn’t want to feel charitable towards Orgik. She was making his life complicated, and she kept frowning at him or seeming to enjoy his unease. But, he tried to swallow his anger. She _was_ actually helping him.

Orgik suddenly turned back to the phone. “Yes. Yes.” She said as the voice on the line nattered away. “Hm yes, point of death, yes.” Harry sat up straight. “Very good,” Orgik said finally, and placed the phone, or magical phone, if that was what it was, back on the base.

She turned at walked back to the desk seating herself before speaking. “Kiln House was owned by James Potter until his death upon which point ownership transferred to you. The Ministry has no legal ownership of the property and any stasis or preserving charms placed upon it could, therefore, be seen as a form of magical trespassing.” 

Harry stared at her. He owned a house. He guessed he always kind of knew he owned it, but he’d never really thought about it directly before.

“Kiln House will do as collateral,” she said.

Harry blinked away his thoughts and nodded. Yeah, he bet it would. The house where it all happened, he thought, spirits sinking, he’d bet there were loads of loonies who’d love to get their hands on that.

Harry reached out for the dagger. Not that any of it mattered, because he was going to pay back this stupid loan anyway. Using the point of the dagger, Harry carefully placed it against the tip of his finger, then pressed only the slightest amount. The dagger was sharp and instantly blood began to well from the tip.

Harry leaned forwards quickly and pressed his finger to the scroll. He sat back, slipping his finger into his mouth and sucking the blood away, as the blood on the scroll began to ripple, pooling and growing into a well, before scratching its way across the paper into letters. Harry, uncomfortably reminded of Tom Riddle’s diary, watched as the letters formed into words.

Harry James Potter  
Vault Number 687

The blood stopped moving, and Harry turned to look at Orgik. She reached over and picked up the scroll. Scanned it twice, then nodded.

“Very good Mr Potter. We may proceed with the loan.”

Harry breathed out a sigh of relief he hadn’t realised he’d been holding and nodded.

“The amount,” Orgik asked?

“Six hundred galleons,” Harry said with a confidence he didn’t entirely feel, “Of that, 500 in galleons, and the rest in sickles and knuts.” He’d never entirely understood the Wizarding currency ratios, and he added awkwardly, “more sickles than knuts though.”

He hoped that would be enough. He was pretty sure it would. He thought it might be something like a small fortune, but he was planning to make some big purchases, and he didn’t know how long he’d be without his key. Better safe than sorry, he thought and on that note...

“Are there any anti-theft charms that can be added to the Gringotts money bag?” He asked, ashamed to realise it wasn’t something he’d ever thought to check before. Amazing what being a thief will do for your financial habits, he thought, hiding a grin.

“The standard bag has a body sticking, anti-theft alarm and owner-only access charm included,” Orgik replied, “more than that, the cut hand curse, the pocket eating pickpocket and so on, are, of course, extra.”

Harry winced, neither of those sounded particularly appealing. “No, I just wanted to make sure no one can take it from me, that’s... the standards are probably fine, thanks.” 

Orgik considered him impassively. “Very well,” she said, and she pulled a sheaf of papers out from one of the drawers in her desk. Selecting the top few, she scrawled the amount across the top, then handed them to Harry along with the quill. “Sign here, here and here,” she said. 

Harry, scanning the words not nearly much as he knew he should, finally just signed his name where she pointed. He missed Hermione, though he realised missing his friend because he wanted her to do the boring stuff for him, wasn’t really the kindest thought he could have, and he was feeling pretty terrible when he sat back and Orgik swiftly swept the pages up into a stack and tucked them into a pocket.

“The Vow, Mr Potter.”

She stepped around to his side of the desk and waited. After a second, Harry got awkwardly to his feet.

She raised her right hand, and Harry hesitantly raised his. 

“Palm to palm, Mr Potter.”

 

“Oh, right,” he said and stepped forwards, bringing his palm to meet hers.

She raised her other hand, her fingers making an ‘o’ shape, index touching thumb, then as she spoke, she began quickly to shift from gesture to gesture in a fluid motion.

“I Orgik of the Stone Cutters, in my role as Head Goblin of Gringotts, do swear to loan to Harry James Potter the amount of 600 Galleons in denominations agreed and under the laws of Gringotts.” There was a short flash of light, and Harry saw a thin thread of gold appear suddenly, winding around her fingers. She passed her hand around their palms, and the thread looped around them. Harry could feel it against the back of his hand, warm and somehow itchy.

“In return, Harry James Potter swears as surety his house, Kiln Cottage in Godric's Hollow.” She glanced at him and Harry stared back, unsure what he was supposed to say. 

“Um… yes?” He said.

Orgik rolled her eyes, but it seemed to be suitable, since she swept her hand over his once more, and a second thread joined the first.

“Should Harry James Potter fail to repay the loan and the interest accrued under the laws of Gringotts, The Potter Vault, number 687 and all monies therein shall be forfeit.”

This time, when she caught his eyes, Harry nodded firmly.

“I agree,” he said. She wound her fingers around a third time. There was a final flash of light, and then she stepped away.

Harry stepped back as well, flexing his hand. It was, he realised, the same hand he’d used for wandless magic earlier, and this vow had brought back the ache. He could feel the strands, like a spider web on his skin.

“The threads will constrict should you fail to repay the loan,” Orgik said, her eyes on where Harry was rubbing the back of his hand. “Some even lose the hand,” she said. Harry tried not to glare at her obvious satisfaction. 

“That’s not gonna happen, but thanks for the warning.”

“You are most welcome Mr Potter, she said, remarkably gracious now that the deed was done.

Harry, who just wanted to be out of there by this point, just grimaced.

Orgik went to the table and picked up the dagger, “Would you like to dispose of this?” She asked and Harry saw the tip of the dagger was stained red.

“I, ah, I don’t have my wand,” he said.

Orgik’s frown deepened, then she gestured towards his clothes.

Harry carefully took the dagger from her and wiped the blood off until the dagger was clean. The hoodie, being fairly horrible anyway didn’t look any worse for wear.

He handed the dagger back. “Thanks,” he said. He should have thought of it himself, he realised. He’d just seen how important blood could be for its magical properties, and he hadn’t really needed the lesson, considering the role blood magic had played in his life. 

Orgik simply nodded and replaced the dagger on the shelf. The scroll went into the cabinet, in the Potter file Harry suspected and then she led him out of the office and back into the atrium.

She took him to a free teller and silently handed the loan contract over. The teller looked it over, nodded and handed it back.

“Mr Potter.” She turned to him. “It was a pleasure doing business with you,” she said, her tone entirely even. Harry wasn’t sure if she was laughing at him, but he dredged up his manners and nodded. 

“Yes, likewise,” he said shortly and bowed. 

She turned while he was still finishing the bow and walked off. Harry huffed under his breath. He didn’t think he’d made a friend, but at least he’d avoided making an enemy, so maybe that would be good enough. 

The goblin at the counter handed over a small money bag and Harry grinned as he took it, awed, just like the first time, at the fact that so much gold could be placed in something so tiny. “Thank you,” he said, with a grin, his spirits lifting and, tucking the bag into his stuffed pocket, he walked quickly towards the doors. Remembering at the last minute to check his hoodie and his fringe were in place.

He paused on the steps and looked out at Diagon Alley. He thought an hour had passed inside the bank, and the Alley had almost entirely woken up by now. Shops open, wares stacked in the street, and cafe tables pitched welcomingly opposite. The street was fairly empty of shoppers though, and not wanting particularly to stand out, Harry turned his feet directly toward Ollivanders. First things first. He was getting his wand.


	5. Chapter 5

The bell above the door jangled as Harry pushed it open, the echoes fading eerily into the silence. Harry shuffled in and pushed the door shut behind him. The sight and smell of the shop was exactly the same as the first time. Towers of boxes reaching up above his head, and the dust and quiet settling over him.

People didn’t come in here that often, he realised. Where you might visit a robe shop seasonally, or a bookshop regularly, a joke shop, if you were a kid, every chance you got, but here? Harry took another step into the shadowy interior. You visited a wand shop once when you were eleven and maybe once more for each of your children. Harry looked up at the boxes and turned slowly on his heel.

If you unfortunate, you might visit a second time to replace a broken wand, but that still meant you could probably count the number of visits on one hand. Harry shuffled around, turning to look at the boxes stacked on the other side.

Harry wondered if Ollivander got lonely.

Harry turned and pulled up short, suddenly face to face with the man himself.

“Good Afternoon,” Ollivander said softly, and Harry was rocked back by the force of his memory.

“Hello,” he said, after a moment.

“Ah yes,” Ollivander said, and his eyes flickered up to Harry's forehead. Harry, sure his fringe was covering the scar, was still unsurprised when Ollivander followed up with, “Yes, yes. I must say, Mr Potter, you are a little, earlier, than expected.”

Harry, who suddenly heard a double meaning in that, let out a laugh that echoed loudly and awkwardly in the quiet of the shop. 

“Um. Yes,” he said, after a moment. “I am a bit. Early. That is.” Then struck with a thought, he asked. “That’s not going to be a problem, is it? I mean, I can still get my wand, even though I’m not yet eleven, right?”

Ollivander watched Harry with his large eyes. “Certainly Mr Potter, Certainly.” He stared at Harry, and Harry feeling more than a little uncomfortable, took a step back.

“Glad to hear it,” he said.

“You have your mother’s eyes,” Ollivander said, and with a sinking feeling, Harry realised he was going to get the same litany as last time, all the way down to ‘terrible but great’ he imagined. It had been a memory he’d done his best to shake at different times down the years.

Ollivander finished listing the qualities of Harry’s mother’s wand, then moved on to his father and took another step closer. Harry, suddenly not comfortable with his proximity, took a large step back, getting dangerously close to the stacked wand boxes, and Ollivander stopped speaking.

“I never knew them,” Harry said. “My parents, I mean. I don’t suppose you know where their wands are?” He asked, casting for some way to change the subject.

“I’m sorry Mr Potter, I do not,” Ollivander said, tucking his hands into his voluminous sleeves, but no longer advancing on Harry.

Harry, his shoulders tense, chose to stay across the room.

“It is, however, tradition in some circles for the wand to be buried with the wizard or witch.” Ollivander paused “In others, the wands are passed down.”

Harry nodded, thinking of Neville and Ron with a sudden pang of homesickness. It would be nice, he thought, trying to shift his thoughts away from his missing friends, to know what his family traditions were. Harry sighed. “I suppose they were buried with them.” He said, looking at Ollivander. No one had ever passed a wand on to him after all.

“Indeed,” Ollivander said with a soft finality. “Well now, Mr Potter. Let me see.” He pulled out his familiar tape measure. Harry volunteered his right arm and the parade of wands began.

They were, Harry suspected, the same wands as last time, and Harry wondered if Ollivander really thought they would suit, or if he was just trying then for form’s sake. Either way, the parade of wands gradually came to a close and Ollivander finally emerged from the back of the shop with Harry’s familiar holly wand in his hand. When he touched it, he realised the rush of magic that he’d been remembering was nothing like the real thing. The warmth from the wand seemed to caress his fingers and he grinned in joy. He felt his magic rise to meet the wand and instinctively, calmly, he checked it.

The wand remained, still and warm in his hand, no sparks shooting out the end and Harry looked up at Ollivander in surprise. 

Ollivander frowned and was about to take the wand from Harry, when Harry snatched his hand back, “No,” he said. “This is the one.”

“Mr Potter, when a wand chooses a wizard there is a reaction.”

“No, I know,” Harry said across him. “There was. I mean, I felt it. I just...” He hesitated “I stopped it.”

Ollivander tilted his head and considered him with his large eyes. “May I?”

And Harry, warily, flipped his wand over in his hand and presented Ollivander with the base. Ollivander’s eyes widened minutely at the practised move and he ran his finger softly up the wand, not taking it from Harry’s hand.

“Hm,” he said, and Harry took his wand back.

“Curious, Mr Potter. Very curious.” Harry, resigned, asked what was so curious.

“Why, Mr Potter, it takes familiarity for a young witch or wizard to check the flow of magic down a wand. Much of the early classes at Hogwarts are aimed directly at that, at control.”

Harry frowned, tapping his finger against his wand.

“To show such a firm grasp of magical control so early...” Ollivander trailed off.

Harry sighed inwardly. Great, he thought, good job at staying under the radar, Harry.

Harry chose not to respond, and when Ollivander offered to wrap the wand, he asked for a holster instead, which he strapped to his wrist and tucked his wand into. Paying for both, he hesitated in the doorway. He knew he should ask Ollivander about the trace. He was, after all, the best source of knowledge and while Harry could search Flourish and Blotts for a book, but asking an actual wandmaker was a much better option. He pushed down the desire to get out of this creepy shop and Ollivander’s clear eyes and turned around.

“Mr Ollivander, can you tell me about the trace?”

“The trace?” Ollivander asked limpid eyes wide, and he turned away from the till to come closer to Harry.

Harry, his weight resting on the balls of his feet, tried not to visibly lean back. He liked Ollivander all right, respected him as a wizard, but being tiny and loomed over was not an experience he’d ever enjoyed, and he didn’t like the feeling that Ollivander knew more than he was letting on.

“I just wondered how it worked,” Harry asked. Hoping he wasn’t breaking any laws by asking. Seemed like the sort of ridiculous rule the Ministry might think up.

But Ollivander didn’t tell him it was illegal, just stood there looking down at him and then, after a length of silence that Harry thought was unbearably awkward, he nodded his pale head. “The trace is a rare example of a Great Working.”

Here he paused, and Harry let his weight settle. “A Great Working?”

“Indeed,” Ollivander said. “A spell placed over the entirety of Wizarding Britain. A spell tied to every witch or wizard who registers a wand.”

“Registers a wand?” Harry asked.

“Correct.”

“But, I didn’t register,” he said, confused.

“All wands sold at Ollivanders are registered at point of sale,” Ollivander replied, pointing with his finger to a tiny plaque tucked between the boxes and the door. Harry stepped up to it and read:

Approved Wand Registry Location 3 MoM.

“Huh,” Harry said. “I never noticed that.”

“Most people don’t,” Ollivander replied, from uncomfortably close. Harry flinched, and stepped away, turning to face him again.

“But what about inherited wands,” he asked, intrigued.

“For those, the witch or wizard must visit the Ministry to register in person.”

“What if they don’t?” Harry asked, thinking of how easy it would be for Pure Blood or Wizarding raised children to skip out.

“They will, for one thing, be barred entry to Hogwarts and the Ministry will eventually send someone to check the discrepancy between birth records and wand registration.”

“Hm.” Harry supposed that made sense. It wasn’t like the Wizard raised needed to worry about the Trace anyway. The Trace didn’t care about spells done in magical areas, did it? He remembered Dumbledore explaining the whole thing, and he felt again the unfair difference between Muggle and Wizard raised children.

“Is that why it doesn’t it register accidental magic?” Harry asked, thinking of the cupboard door and the times before. “Because they don’t have a wand yet?”

Ollivander nodded. 

Harry was silent for a moment. He wasn’t sure how to ask his next question, since his next question was basically, how do I get around it?

“How does the spell know you’re seventeen?” He asked slowly.

Ollivander considered the question, “It is not a question of being seventeen. The number of years from your birth to that moment is not what matters. It is the act of reaching your majority,” he said. “The Trace cannot work on a mature magical core. It simply slips off.” He said and waved his fingers in the air.

Well, there was the question, Harry thought. What age was his magical core? Had his magic come back with him? Certainly, his control over his wand felt instinctive, Harry looked down at it. But the wandless magic had so exhausted him, he’d thought that was his young magical core at fault. Could it just have been the usual toll of wandless magic? 

Harry looked back at Ollivander. He’d have to test it, he realised. He’d have to do magic in the Muggle world and wait and see if the Ministry, or at the very least an angry letter, descended upon him.

“Thanks for the explanation Mr Ollivander,” Harry said finally.

“You’re welcome, Mr Potter.”

Harry turned towards the door and slipped out before Ollivander could add anything further.

He looked around himself. He decided to act as though he could get around the Trace, buy only what he needed, then do the test. If it failed, he’d have to come back and get automatic charms put on everything, or possibly scrap the plan altogether. If the Trace picked up Dobby’s wandless hovering charm, who’s to say it wouldn't pick up an automatic Shrinking Charm as well.

Harry refused to let the thought bring him down. He was in Diagon Alley, he was free to buy whatever he needed to get around and he was going to Romania. Hell, he’d go the Muggle way if he had to.

Harry pulled out his list. Broomstick was listed first, so Harry wound his way past the early shoppers to the shop.

Inside was calm and quiet, far too early for any excitable children to arrive. The walls of the shop were covered in Quidditch posters, and between them, neat racks that held gleaming brooms. 

Oh, the brooms! Quidditch brooms, racing brooms, tandem brooms. Brooms with large baskets on the back with signs that cheerfully announced they’d meet ‘all your shopping and picnic-ing needs!’ Safety brooms for small children, tiny model brooms, some complete with Quidditch players. All the Quidditch team gear you could possibly want. A neat stack of Quidditch periodicals and books. Pots and pots of varnish and creams for treating brooms, tidy broom kits in neat leather cases. Harry just stood for a moment and stared and stared. 

Why hadn't he come back here? He thought. Why hadn’t he tried to visit after the rebuilding started? When had he last gone flying? He thought with a lurch. He’d forgotten how much he’d missed it. 

It was a few minutes before Harry could do much more than soak it all in and a lot longer before he managed to drag himself away from the Nimbus 2000 range at the front. 

Harry turned back towards the long distance models and began to scan the shelves, eyes flicking from price tag to price tag. They were all extremely expensive. Harry bit his lip. He glanced around and walked slowly towards the back fo the shop, where a small display of refurbished brooms were stood on neat, though rather cramped shelves. Even those were out of his price range. 

Harry stood staring at them. This was a new problem for him, he realised. He had, ever since arriving in the Wizarding World and going straight to Gringotts, been... well... rich. Extremely rich. He still wasn’t entirely sure how rich, and he did intend to get an accounting of his vault when he could, but… he hadn’t needed to check price tags before, he realised. 

He’d gone from not being able to buy anything, to being able to buy _everything_. He was only now starting to realise that both of those were rather extreme. He thought of the uncomfortable moments with Ron and the other Weasleys and felt unaccountably ashamed.

Harry heard a noise behind him and he turned as the door on the far wall opened, and a man emerged from the back of the shop, wiping his hand on a leather apron. Harry caught sight of a workbench behind and he guessed the shop owner had been doing repairs. 

“Oh hello lad didn’t see you there,” he said with a smile, that grew smaller as he got closer and saw the state of Harry’s clothes and shoes.

Harry who had tugged his hoodie back up upon leaving Ollivanders, wondered if he shouldn’t have bought a good cloak first. But, then he realised it might actually play to his advantage, and sending an unsubtle look of longing towards the brooms, he asked. “Do you know where the second-hand broom shop is, sir? Mum said she’d meet me there but I don’t think this is it.”

“Certainly not.” The man said, affronted, but, looking down at Harry he seemed to relent slightly. “You want Splinter and Kreek, on Low End.”

“Low End?” Harry asked, wondering if the man was making it up, but he just nodded, then started to chivvy Harry towards the door. Harry feeling allowed himself to be shepherded. The man pointed down the alley and told him to turn right after Fortescue’s and look for the statue of Barnabas the Barmy.

Harry thanked him and strode down Diagon Alley. He hadn’t really thought about the kind of shops on Diagon before but looking about him now, he realised most of them were grand and large, and full of really very expensive goods (solid gold cauldrons!) He thought again of Ron, who had so often ‘already done his shopping’ and would follow Harry and Hermione around while they did theirs. He should have noticed, he thought. He should have done something. Though Ron would never really have let him do anything, he imagined. 

Harry, lost in thought, almost overshot Florian’s, and only stopped when he realised he recognised the second-hand bookshop beside it. The bookshop, technically, was on the street leading off from Diagon and Harry realised this was the beginning of Low End, a small, sheltered crescent of shops, with the statue of Barnabas sitting in the centre.

Harry entered the circle and walked slowly around. The bookshop was the largest shop there, sitting as it did on the corner, and Harry saw they sold not just books, but also writing materials, with some very fine (though used) feather quills in the window. After that was a small cafe called Right Bites, then a magical luggage shop called Going Places, the Best Bestiary which Harry thought was a pet shop. There were birds in cages outside, but he thought he could see some cats wandering around the shelves inside. Next to this was another, much smaller bookshop, this one specialising in antiquities and foreign language books, he read from the little placard in the window, then a clothes shop called Dud’s Duds, and here, despite his aversion to the name, Harry paused his exploration and went in.

The shop was clean and tidy, and the shop attendant, a young man with a neat afro, sent him a welcoming smile from where he was folding bolts of cloth at the counter, but neither rushed up to him nor rushed him out. Harry liked it better already. 

He liked it even more when he explored further and found two whole rows of Muggle and Muggle worthy styles. The prices, he found, after doing some mental arithmetic, and then remembering to minus for inflation, were actually pretty reasonable, and he decided he would buy most of his clothes here, rather than going into the Muggle world for them.

Thinking about camping, he picked out a couple of thick trousers, and one in wool, as well as some simple white shirts that would do at Hogwarts as well. There was a red jumper that was a bit big for him, but it reminded him of the Weasley jumpers so much, he knew he had to buy it. The only other jumper that fit him was a deep green colour, and after a short back and forth on the merits of wearing Slytherin colours, he finally rolled his eyes and added it to the basket. Camping got cold, and he’d need the layers, anyway he could always wear red over the top. “Yeah,” he muttered, “and look like a Christmas tree.”

“Let me know if you need any help.” He suddenly heard, and he realised the shop attendant had heard him speak. 

“No, I’m fine,” Harry responded, then, realising he was rather laden down, walked over to the counter. “Can I leave these here actually?”

“Sure,” the attendant said with a smile and Harry went back to the shelves.

He spent a little while longer in the wizarding aisle, looking for a cloak that carried the extra warming and weatherproof charms he knew he’d need on his broom. The best he could find had a cosy, down-filled lining, though it was a little too big for him, Harry decided the charms were worth it, and he laid it over his shoulder. He picked up a lightweight cotton day cloak as well, in a deep midnight blue, since he didn’t think he’d have the chance to change his entire outfit until later.

He had no luck with the gloves and hat. Harry knew it was summer, but at flying height, the temperature would be extremely cold, and that combined with the wind, he was sure he’d need them. Still, he was happy with what he’d found, and on his way back to the till he took a quick look through the shoes. The only ones in his size ‘and equipped with two years growing charms!’ the sign said, were a pair of shiny patent dragonskin boots. In lime green. Harry decided to pass.

Harry returned to the counter and asked the shop attendant if he’d shrink his purchases except for the cloak which the attendant was happy to do and Harry exited with his new cloak over his shoulders and a single bag in his hands, into which he quickly emptied his clock and his toys, keeping only his Muggle and wizarding money on him.

Feeling extremely happy with his thriftiness so far, a fairly novel feeling, Harry backtracked towards the luggage shop and looked around. He wasn’t sure it made sense to purchase a trunk, they weren’t particularly manoeuvrable, and the shrinking charms might be trouble if it turned out he couldn’t get out of the trace, better to find something extendible like Hermione’s bag, he thought.

In the end, he came across a double set of broomstick panniers in thick waxed cotton, and opening them, he found the insides were folded wizard space, easily enough for his new purchases and then some. They also had straps on the back, that meant they could be detached from the broom brace and turned into rucksacks, which he thought was pretty clever. 

After checking with the shopkeeper that the weightless charms were still working and that placing a wizard tent into the panniers wouldn’t mess with the respective charms, he then asked to see the tents. There were quite a range, one an extremely fancy, draped monstrosity in peach and cream silk, that the shopkeeper said had been made special and they’d never been able to shift since it came in, but most of the others were secure, canvas triangle tents, quite familiar to Harry.

Harry, after a moment, explained he was going camping with his big brother and that they were looking for something simple and well made, with strong weatherproofing charms despite the summer weather.

“An all rounder!” The shopkeeper exclaimed, clearly excited at the prospect, mopping his pale forehead with one hand and proceeded to tell Harry all about the camping trips he’d taken his family on. Harry, who had been shocked at how easily the lie about his brother fell from his lips, felt bad enough to listen to the shopkeepers whole story - “and then, would you believe it, she dropped her shoe in the lake” - but he was extremely glad when the story wrapped up and the man dug in the shelves and emerged with an off-white canvas sack. Pulling the tent out, he magicked it up with a few simple waves, and Harry ducked inside.

The interior was musty, but not damp and Harry thought with a bit of airing, the smell would dissipate. Smaller than the Weasley’s tent, the size was closer to the one he’d used with Ron and Hermione. The walls too were the same stiff white cotton, though this tent seemed slightly newer than theirs had been, with fewer stains. The wooden floor was covered with a threadbare brown and white rug and the simple furniture was upholstered in similar colours. The whole effect was quite pleasing, if plain, Harry thought.

He got the impression the tent hadn’t often been used. There wasn’t anything particularly personal about the decor. Maybe that was a good thing, he mused, running his hand over the dining table. He could make it his own and the thought, the idea of having his own private space, was surprisingly appealing.

“Bedroom through here,” the shopkeeper said and Harry ducked under a sweep of canvas to look at the little room.

There was a dark wood wardrobe in the corner, a matching chest of drawers next to it.

“Beds can be raised into a bunk, or extended into a double,” the shopkeeper said, tapping the frame with his wand to show Harry.

The shopkeeper led Harry through the rest of it. The small bathroom area was tiled, which was more than a little incongruous amongst all the canvas draping, and had a little vent leading outside. The shopkeeper talked Harry through the water system and how to top it up.

Those rooms were the only two closed sections, the rest of the tent was taken up with the main sitting/dining area, and the kitchenette off to the side. 

Harry pulled open the oven and watched as the shopkeeper lit the various hobs and showed Harry the cold cupboard.

“Fireproofing?” Harry asked, eyeing the cooker.

“Of course.” The shopkeeper answered, pointing to the little tag on the side of the cooker that stated ‘this appliance has been tested for fireproofing safety’ and followed with a date, signature and Ministry stamp.

“Fifty years minimum on those,” the man said, and Harry calculated he had about twenty years of fire safety left. The little stove in the living area had the same.

“Well,” the shopkeeper said after they emerged back into the shop. “What do you think?”

Harry, not wanting to be too keen, asked about weatherproofing charms. “I don’t want a tent that leaks,” he added.

“Quite right, quite right,” the shopkeeper said and Harry watched as he packed it up again. Harry wasn’t sure if he was going to show him another, and almost interrupted to say he quite liked the little tent after all, but instead, the shopkeeper merely tucked the bag under his arm and gestured for Harry to follow.

Intrigued, Harry exited the shop behind him and watched as the shopkeeper set the tent up again on the cobblestones. The crescent was still empty, so Harry, the shopkeeper and Barnabas were the only ones to see as the shopkeeper conjured a minor whirlwind and then a stream of water and flung them against the tent.

Harry was surprised into laughter.

“Best way to test it I say!” The shopkeeper shouted over the noise, as the whirlwind did its very best to pick the tent up.

This went on for a few minutes, Harry having to duck away from the spray, as the shopkeeper got entirely carried away and was finally shouted at to stop by a woman coming out of the cafe next door.

“All over my tables, look at this!” She said, her hands on her hips. Her blonde hair flicking about her face in the fading wind.

“Sorry Maisy, sorry. Young lad needed a tent you see,” the shopkeeper said, finally ending his whirlwind and then sweeping the tables with a strong drying charm.

“Watch the varnish!” The lady screeched, and the shopkeeper caught Harry’s eye sheepishly and gestured for them to get back into his shop.

Harry still fighting a grin, nipped in behind him.

“Well.” The shopkeeper got his handkerchief out and wiped his forehead. “I’d say that’s a good test as any.”

“Definitely,” Harry said, happy with the way the tent had stood up. “I’ll take it,” he said.

He left the shop grinning, his possessions old and new packed into one of the panniers on his back. Noticing the woman from the cafe still going over her tables, Harry quickly headed in the opposite direction. 

Despite the uncomfortable start on the train, this was turning out to be one of the best shopping trips he’d done, he thought.

The young man from the clothes shop was leaning in the doorway and he grinned as Harry approached, “Any excuse, that one”. He said, flicking his thumb in the direction of the luggage shop.

Harry laughed. “I’d hate to know what happens if someone wants something fireproof.” He grinned and was gratified to see the man break into a laugh.

The shop next to the clothing shop was vacant, but the _next_ one was the broomstick shop. Harry stepped into the hushed interior. The shop was set up much like the one on Diagon Alley, but the shop was narrower and the brooms were clustered closer together. They were also, quite obviously, older models, with thicker shafts and the occasional brittle ends.

Harry with both years of Quidditch and broom flying knowledge stored in his head, plus all the things Ron had mentioned over the years, was able to look them over with a practised eye, and quickly narrowed his possible purchases to a smart, but older model Cleansweep 2 towards the front of the shop, Or a slightly newer, but far less maintained Comet 260 towards the back.

Harry was checking the underside of the bristles of the Comet when he heard someone moving about at the back of the shop, and he straightened to meet the shopkeeper. She was a tall, athletic-looking woman, with extremely shiny, straight black hair. Her eyes were sharp and dark and the lines on her face few and far between. He guessed she was somewhere around Remus or Sirius’ age, and with a pang, he realised his mother would be the same age, had she lived.

“Good eye,” she said, and Harry was surprised out of his thoughts by the familiar accent. 

“Oh,” he said.

Since he didn’t follow it up with anything sensible she cocked her eyebrow and just looked at him.

Harry blushed, “Sorry, I just, I know someone who talks and um, looks a bit like you.” He winced now, feeling awkward.

The woman just nodded and Harry made a mental note to ask Cho if she had a relative in broom sales. “Right, this one, yeah,” Harry said, trying to make up for his lapse, “Can I take a look?”

She nodded and lifted it down from the wall.

“First years don’t play at Hogwarts,” she said, after a moment, as Harry checked over the rest of the bristles, gently pulling and pushing them to see how well they were secured.

“No, I know. It’s not for Quidditch,” he said. He didn’t particularly want to lie, especially if it turned out she _was_ related to Cho, (the wizarding world was extremely small after all), and he hoped she wouldn’t push him for details. 

“This is a bit deep isn’t it?” He asked, both to change the subject, and because the long scratch down the side of the shaft was a little concerning.

She stepped forward and took the broom from him. “It runs almost completely parallel along the top,” she said, turning the broom so that it was the right way up. “Except for here, at the end. Won’t affect the balance or turning capabilities too much. Though, it might drag a little when turning right at high altitude.” She fingered the end where the scratch twisted to the side.

“What about load?” Harry asked.

She looked down at him. “Yes,” she said, “I can see how that might be a concern.” Though her tone was level, Harry thought her mouth might have twitched a little.

Harry realised how ridiculous it sounded was for a scrawny kid like him to be worried about overloading.

“It shouldn't do,” she said finally. “These newer model Comets have upgraded weight charms. Trying to market them as a family broom, not just for Quidditch. Not that this is one of the family safety models,” she added, looking at him severely. “You’ll have to get any extra charms done separately. Quality Quidditch will do it for you, they’re not cheap, but they’re the best we have here in London.” She hesitated for a second, then, her eyes flicking down Harry, then back up, added “They can do the cloaking and repelling charms for Muggle radar and the like as well. Though, you’ll have to watch your take off and landing.”

For a second, Harry thought she had somehow guessed at his whole plan, and his insides went cold until he caught her sending a second glance down… at his trainers below his cloak and he realised she didn’t know _who_ he was. She just thought he was a Muggle-born trying to work out how to use magic in the Muggle world.

Harry breathed out in relief, then acted like he understood. Actually, it was pretty good advice.

Thanks,” He said. “Do you have any all-weather hats and gloves as well?”

She had a pair of goggles that Harry thought looked extremely strong, but probably overkill for the journey he was doing: he wasn’t planning to fly into any storms. But she found him a set of charmed leather gloves that still had some good wear in them left, and a Chudley Canons hat that, while extremely orange, was still very warm and had a good, strong sticking charm in place.

“If you tuck the ends over your ears, it’ll hold your glasses in place too,” she said, and Harry who hadn’t thought of a solution like that before was fairly impressed.

He did look over the Cleansweep as well but he knew they weren’t made for long distance flights, more the short, intense stretches of Quidditch, so, happy with his selection, he asked her to price them up.

“Is there a servicing kit as well?” he asked, thinking about the dry bristles. 

She nodded and walked over to the rack to pick one up. Harry in the meantime took out his list and looked it over.

He still needed a map, and while he was at the bookshop, he wanted to check out the selection on wandless charms and access between Muggle and wizarding London. Her advice on Muggle radar had reminded him. He wondered if she was Muggle-born. 

He also added foreign flying laws to his mental list and since he was in a broomstick shop, he figured he’d ask her too. 

“Can you recommend any books on flying in Europe?” He asked. He’d thought about this and decided what he really needed was the magical equivalent of a backpacking guide, and he said as much.

He could see she wanted to know why he needed it, and he realised it did seem like an odd purchase for a ten-year-old. So, after a moment's reflection, he added. “I’m saving up.”

There, that seemed reasonable, right? People saved up for holidays. Harry who had been on a total of one holiday in his life, and that holiday having ended in an ancient magical ritual of unknown providence and purpose that sent him right back to where he was now, recognised that he wasn’t exactly an expert, but it did seem to make something in the shopkeeper’s face relax.

“There’s _The Long Haul Handbook_. It’s got anything and everything about living on the broom. It has short sections on the major flying destinations. You’ll want the most recent though, Eastern Europe’s had a number of shifted borders over the past years, and you don’t want to fall foul of any of that.”

Harry, who had paid exactly zero attention to the politics of anywhere outside the UK for most of his life, nodded seriously.

“ _The National Flyer_ puts out guides to different country’s flying prospects. It’s more a holiday guide than anything, with hot spots and viewpoints, but it might work as an overview. Flourish and Blotts with have the best range of course, but ask Bibiana at Bibliophile Books.” She nodded towards the door. “She might have something.”

“Are there rules about crossing borders? “ Harry asked, thinking about what she’d said. 

“It’s more flexible for witches and wizards than it is for Muggles, sure. And people do manage to cross borders without being seen, especially when you're talking about a single landmass like the Continent, rather than islands with nice, easily delineated borders for Customs charms to cling to.”

Harry nodded, internally mouthing, Customs charms?

“But yeah, short answer, there are rules and you can’t just slip over without anyone knowing. Even on a broom,” she said, sternly.

Harry, who was starting to realise his great plan might not be so great after all, asked, “But what about international portkeys?”

“What about them?”

“Well, they’re straightforward aren’t they?” He asked, a little petulantly.

“Sure, if by straightforward you mean, require a hefty pile of galleons and ten feet of paperwork.” She mimed unrolling a long scroll.

Harry who was only now realising Charlie may have gone above and beyond for Harry’s chance at a holiday, fell silent.

“Hey,” the shopkeeper said, her expression a little remorseful. “I never said it was possible, just that it would take time. Keep saving, you’ll get there,” she said and Harry realised, a second too late, that she was reaching out to ruffle his hair.

He jerked backwards, out from under her hand, and the force of his movement lifted his fringe from his head for a second.

Her expression blanked with shock.

“Is that...” She pointed.

“No.” Harry snapped. Which was, possibly the stupidest response he could give. 

She looked down at him, and then, after a slow second, turned her hand so she was holding out to him. “Lucy,” she said. “Lucy Chang.”

Harry, his shoulders slumping slowly raised his hand to shake hers. “Harry,” he said shortly.

Lucy looked down at him for a second longer, then turned and swiftly rung up his purchases.

Harry, waiting for the other shoe to drop, didn’t know what was happening. 

“That’ll be ninety-five galleons,” she said.

Harry, watching her warily, counted out the money and laid it on the counter.

“Do you want a bag for the other things?” She pointed at the pile beside the broomstick. 

“No,” Harry said, glancing down, “I can fit them in here.” And he did so, packing them carefully into his extending pannier-rucksack.

This done, he picked the broom up off the counter, having to raise on tiptoes to do it, and looked at Lucy Chang warily.

“Whatever it is you’re afraid I’ll do, I’m not going to,” she said, with another twitch of her lips. “But I am very happy to have met you Mr-” She cut herself off. “Harry,” she said instead.

Harry blinked up at her. “Yeah,” he said hesitantly, “you too.” And as he turned to leave the shop, he was surprised to realise he meant it. 

He stopped and stood on the step outside. That had to be the first time someone had met him, realised who he was and not asked some horrible awkward question or reacted like they already knew him or had some kind of meltdown in front of him.

Harry felt a smile slowly coming back onto his face, and he turned to the broomstick shop. The interior was dark, and he couldn’t make out the counter from the street, but he waved his hand in a half wave before he felt self-conscious and stopped.

She said to try the bookshop, he thought. So, taking a breath of fresh air, his smile still on his face, he turned to his right and walked back around the crescent to the bookshop on the corner.

Bibliophile Books, while easily the largest shop on the crescent, wasn’t nearly as big as Flourish, but the sheer volume of books crammed into the space made up for it. Like Ollivanders, the walls were stacked with shelves to the ceiling, but unlike Ollivanders, the shelves were full of slim wand cases, but books. Books and books and more books. It was like Hermione heaven. Harry was pretty impressed himself, even if books hadn’t always been his favourite things.

The till was in the centre of the shop, a circular counter surrounding it, and the woman in the centre, Bibiana, he guessed was about Lucy’s age, slender, with a flyaway bun of brown hair haloing her face, and thin black spectacles resting on her nose. Something in her expression made him think of Luna, so he was surprised when he greeted him with the soft strains of a Russian accent. 

He explained quickly that he was saving up for a flying holiday and that Lucy in Splinter and Kreeks had recommended he ask her for book recommendations.

Bibiana nodded as she listened, blinking behind her glasses. “Yes, yes, of course, I can help you with this,” she said and beckoned for Harry to follow her.

“This is our flying section,” she said, her hand delicately indicated a bookshelf towards the front of the shop. “We also have long distance flying here. This is the book Lucy was mentioning, I think?” And she handed him the _Long Haul Handbook_. Checking the date, Harry saw it was published last year.

“She said I should get the most recent copy,” Harry said, tilting it to show Bibiana the publish date. 

Bibiana nodded. “The forty-sixth edition, yes?” 

Harry ran his eyes back up the page. “Yeah forty-six”

“That is the most recent.” Bibiana nodded again. “They do not publish every year.” 

Harry, reassured, tucked the book under his arm.

“Which countries will you be visiting?” Bibiana asked. 

Harry, realising he hadn’t planned that far ahead, scratched his head. “I don’t suppose you have a map I could look at?”

Bibiana looked at him over the tops of her glasses. “Of course!” She led him to the back of the shop, where there was a small section devoted to maps.

“Thanks,” Harry said, thinking he ought to take a little while to look them over before making any further decisions. Bibiana left him to it and Harry, scanning the shelves, decided to start with the thick Wizarding Atlas on the bottom shelf.

Settling cross-legged on the floor, the book open on his lap, he flicked his way to the map of Europe.

It looked, he thought, much like the Muggle maps he remembered from Geography lessons, although, glancing at the key and noting the magical-only areas were in red, he picked out a handful of islands, lakes, nature reserves, and even a city-state that must not be on the Muggle maps.

The key was very helpful, and he was interested to see the difference between magical-only zones, (like almost all of Siberia) and the cross-hatched part-Muggle part-wizarding areas (like a lot of the Black Forest). Certain towns were picked out on the map, and Harry recognised Hogsmeade up in Scotland.

Finally getting down to business, Harry traced his finger along the Black Sea coast. The Reserve was marked out in red, Magical only, Harry remembered. The fastest way would be to fly in a straight line, he thought, but that would take him right across Europe, crossing straight through France, Germany, Austria, Hungary and Romania, and should he get lost, he could easily stray into Italy and France or any of the cluster of smaller countries south of Hungary. He hadn’t bought a compass, he thought, looking up from the book. Damn. He’d have to go back and ask Lucy.

Harry leaned back and sighed. He didn’t like the thought of going through all those countries, not if there were magical borders he wasn’t supposed to cross. He needed to look at those flying books, he guessed.

The alternative, he thought, leaning forwards again, would be to go via sea as much as possible. He was pretty sure that, like in the Muggle world, the seas weren’t governed by any single country. He traced his finger over the blue on the map. The North Sea was no help, but… the Mediterranean would get him all the way there, he realised with a thrill. Gibraltar and Istanbul might be tricky. The land closed in very tight and those points, pinching the sea between its fingers, but, navigating only two passes was a lot different to a whole mess of them.

It was, of course, a much longer route and there was the added complication of landing. You couldn’t exactly pitch a tent on water. He wasn’t going to take a boat, that would take forever and anyway, he’d just bought a broom not to mention the fact that, other than the self-guiding Hogwarts boats, he’d never been on the water in his life.

From what Lucy had said about island borders and customs charms, he guessed that pitching up on a beach probably wasn’t as easy as it sounded.

Could he carry a raft, he wondered? Did wizards make collapsible rafts? It seemed like a possibility. The flying books would say, he thought, and then, realising he still had _The Long Haul_ with him, he pushed the Atlas off his lap and opened the other book.

 _The Long Haul_ began with a letter from the editor about the joys of flying and some quotes by famous flyers, that Harry quickly skipped over. It then covered some more esoteric bits about the purpose of flying and some history of the pastime, that Harry again skipped to reach the contents.

“Customary Customs  
Funny Money  
Keep Fit and Fly  
Safety First  
On the Ground  
Essential Kit  
What to Pack  
Flooing Home  
Extreme Conditions  
A-Z Country Guide”

Running his finger over the list, Harry turned to Extreme Conditions.

"No true flying guide is complete without a mention of the more unusual flying destinations. Whether it’s the snow-tipped Himalayas (p306) the sandy Saharan desert (p312) or Island hopping in the Pacific (p320)."

Yes, Harry thought. That’s it. Island hopping. He quickly flicked forward to the A-Z and stopped on the Pacific, scanning the text. The description of culture and flying norms across the islands, while fascinating, wasn’t what he was looking for, but turning the page, Harry saw an illustration of a person on a broom reach over into their panniers (that looked, Harry was glad to note, a lot like the ones he’d brought, only slightly larger) and pull out a long length of something that resolved into a long circular piece of wood, then duplicated, then with a flick of a wand, spread out into a long, narrow raft. The little illustrated flyer then guided the raft down to the water and neatly jumped off the broom into it.

“Perfect,” Harry breathed. Now to see if there were larger versions. He read the entry.

"While a number of islands are reachable by short flights on broom only, occasional trips will require the use of a floating landing between flights. Shown in the picture is a simple bamboo raft ( _bilibili_ ), more often used for navigating inland rivers, it can serve as an emergency landing spot on the sea. Unlike the traditional double-hulled _drua_ manufacture and sale of _bilibili_ is unregulated."

Harry sighed, nothing could be easy, could it? 

He turned the page. On the next page, there was an illustration of a much larger and more robust looking boat, with a double hull and a platform across the centre, and large triangular sail above it. He didn’t need the caption to guess this was a _drua_. The text went on to explain the significance of the boat in Pacific Islander, specifically Fijian culture and mentioned briefly the similarities to Muggle traditions in the area. Which was all, Harry thought, extremely fascinating, but not at all helpful, since he thought it extremely unlikely he’d find someone willing to sell him something so precious here in London.

Harry leaned back. There was no reason he couldn’t buy a raft though, he thought. Any sort of raft. He looked back at the illustration on the previous page. Something less narrow than the _bilibili_ , with enough space for him to pitch the tent. But the charms it would require might be beyond him, beyond his budget at least, he thought. They were certainly beyond his magical ability He suspected the charms required for a magical boat were easily as complex as the spells that went into making a broomstick.

He had no idea what the Mediterranean would be like in summer. Calm? Possibly. But there could always be summer storms.

Harry flicked back through the book to the section on Borders and Customs.

"While flying across borders is physically possible, most border cities and towns will have wards set to record the ingress of flyers across their borders."

Right, stick to rural areas, Harry thought.

"Even rural areas will often have dormant notification charms that, while not actively tracking, will notify the relevant authorities of movement. While a border crossing in an emergency may be forgiven, simple ignorance is not an excuse. It is the responsible flyers duty to be aware of all borders and access limits they fly across. Should a flyer find themselves in a country without having registered they correct paperwork, they will rapidly find themselves in trouble with local law enforcement when the oversight is discovered."

Harry bit his lip. That kind of made it sound like it was an assumption that people would check, not a rule. What if the oversight wasn’t discovered? Sure, if someone found Harry, an obviously British child in a tent alone, they’d put two and two together sharpish. But if he managed to stay off the radar? He certainly knew how to ward a campsite by now. And if his wards could keep out Snatchers, he was pretty confident they could keep out local Aurors who weren’t even looking for him. Especially if he stuck to the less populated areas. Harry pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose and kept reading

"Any intrepid flyer must, of course, obtain an international flying pass (IFP). To those unfamiliar, this is an identity card that allows border control personnel to identify the flyer upon entrance to a new country. It’s not surprising that most witches and wizards have not heard of them, as most forms of wizarding transport, (apparition, floo and portkey,) do not require them but have instead, their own forms of security."

Harry thought the IFP sounded a lot like a Muggle passport, and his spirits sank.

He glanced over the final sentence. What about apparition? Harry had, along with Hermione and Ron, apparated using maps while on the run. Their memories, well, _Hermione’s_ memories of places visited with her family had dried up pretty quickly and they’d been too anxious not to keep moving. 

He wasn't foolish enough to try apparating all the way to Romania in one go (but, oh, wouldn’t that be so much easier). But he could do it in jumps. He could at the very least jump the borders, leaving a wide gap for the reach of any border wards. He considered it extremely unlikely that any country had anti-apparition wards strung across their entire border. The strength of a spell like that… Hogwarts was unusual for its anti-apparition wards, and that was just one castle.

Harry nodded to himself. Right, scrap the sea travel idea. If he apparated over borders, flew most of the way and camped in between, he could go cross-country. In fact, apparating via map coordinates would help him avoid getting lost. There was always the risk of splinching when you apparated to a new place, all you needed was a tree where you didn’t expect it, but Hermione had done her best to teach Harry the required focus that allowed you to tweak your final destination you arrived. Something about the relative density of air to solid mass, and temporal dilation. Harry hadn’t entirely understood it, but he’d never ended up in a tree, so, he figured it worked. 

Harry took a deep breath and leaned back, unfolding his legs and closing the book.

None of this would work if the Trace was still in place, of course. In fact, if that was the case, he thought his best bet might be to fly directly to Romania the Muggle way. He’d need a passport though, and he was pretty sure the Dursleys had never bothered getting him one. Why would they? And he thought you probably needed documentation for that, a birth certificate and that sort of thing. Harry had no idea if he had a birth certificate. It’d probably be in Kiln House under wards like Orgik had said. 

Worst came to worst, Harry thought, he’d give up on the broomstick plan, and go back to Orgik, ask for another loan and check the house. Or, possibly more sensible, he’d ask Dumbledore for the key. He wasn’t sure how well that would end. If Dumbledore realised he wasn’t at Privet Drive, and that the blood wards were broken, he might try to re-cast them, and Harry wasn’t going to stand for that. 

Still, Harry thought, stretching out his toes. No point worrying about it now. He reached over for the Atlas and counted off the countries again. He could head straight for France across the Channel, then into Germany around Strasbourg, he ran his finger along the map, which would take him over the Black Forest. Then into Austria over the Alps at Salzburg. There was a large lake South of Vienna that could take him towards the border with Hungary. The map didn’t show any particular rural areas between Hungary and Romania, so he’d just have to travel the border until he found a place, and then he’d need to hug the Romanian border at Galaţi to make sure he didn’t accidentally cross into Moldova or Ukraine. He ran his finger along the curving line of the Romanian border.

“Rezervaţia Biosferei Delta Dunării,” he said softly, reading the tiny words. As he poked them, they shuffled around until they read ‘Danube Delta Biosphere Reserve’ then shifted back into the original when he raised his finger. A neat charm, he thought. The Atlas was pretty impressive. He thought he might add it to his list of purchases.

Harry turned back to _The Long Haul_ and thinking about the start of his journey, flicked to the page covering France.

"The entire North West coast of France is a popular stretch for British Flyers, due to the proximity, however, the usual concerns of cross-water flying apply (p466)."

Harry, realising this must have been one of the extreme cases mentioned had he bothered to read further, ruefully flipped to it, hoping vaguely for some mention of a boat solution. The section, however, while listing a number of boats, and noting the appendix listing of major British manufacturers, made it very clear that an ocean crossing, even a sea crossing was a far more complicated undertaking than Harry had realised. Still, the section that listed cross-water dangers (mostly storm and wind-related) was pretty useful, and he folded the corner of the page before flicking back to the French section.

At the front of the shop, Harry heard the door open and Bibiana’s voice raised as she greeted the new customer. As Harry looked up, his stomach let off a rumble and Harry, realising he’d been sitting here for quite a while, stood up and stretched out his legs and arms.

He probably didn't have to do all his research now, he thought. In fact, it might be safer if he did it in his tent somewhere, less likely to be recognised.

Harry turned back to the shelves. Harry wasn’t sure he’d need any local maps if he had the Atlas, but, deciding to check, he knelt down on the floor again, and turned the pages back to the front. There, listed next to the key, was a short list of charms, the translation charm was mentioned, but also zooming charms and the magnification level. Harry, not entirely sure what magnification level he’d need, re-read the instructions, then flipped to a random page and tapped it with his wand. “ _Amplio,_ ” he said softly and smiled in satisfaction as the map began to zoom in and in until he could make out individual streets. It didn’t go any further than that, Harry couldn’t see buildings and despite poking the map, no street names came up. But Harry thought that would be alright. He didn’t really care about ending up in exactly the right street after all. When it came to the nature reserve, Harry had no idea where the cabin he’d stayed in, or the cave itself, were going to be. He’d probably have to scour the entire coastline anyway he thought.

He had no idea how long any of this would take and he realised he ought to make an estimate. It’d affect the amount of food he brought with him. He didn’t fancy going shopping in a foreign country when he didn’t speak the language, didn’t have the right money and, oh yeah, was a ten-year-old.

Harry flicked back to the Europe page, and, checking the scale in the corner, stretched his fingers out to estimate the number of inches, then converted it into miles. “One thousand… two hundred miles,” he said to himself finally.

Harry sat back on his heels. Comets were nothing for their acceleration, he thought, remembering his Firebolt fondly, but he wasn’t racing, and he’d chosen the Comet because they were said to be steady over longer distances. He imagined he could sustain about sixty miles an hour for maybe forty-five minutes to be safe and avoid cramp, giving himself fifteen minutes break in between. Sixty into one thousand two hundred was... Twenty? He thought. Yeah. He nodded, twenty. So, that meant two days. He hesitated. Ok no, he probably couldn’t manage to fly for ten hours just like that. He’d need to stop to eat, and even with fifteen-minute breaks, ten hours of flying was a bit much. He loved flying, sure, but still.

Three days, he thought. As long as nothing went wrong, and, he remembered, the apparition would take some of the distance out. In fact, he could try and apparate more. Though not too much; repeat apparitions, besides being exhausting, tended to make him feel a bit sick. But it meant that three days was probably doable. Great, Harry thought, his spirits lifting. 

He really needed to find out how far these border wards and charms extended from the actual border. But he wasn’t sure how to ask that question without it being extremely obvious what he was looking for. Maybe he could try at Flourish and Blotts, he thought. He didn’t need to tell them anything about his whole camping trip. He glanced at his broom, leant up against the bookshelf. He could hand that over to Quality Quidditch he thought, with a burst of inspiration. While the shopkeeper was applying those charms Lucy had mentioned, he could go down to Flourish, it would be an odd thing for a child to ask about, sure, but so what, he could say it was for a homework project. He had no idea what Wizarding primary school was like if such a thing even existed, but he thought the excuse might work. Anyway, Flourish would be getting busier by now, the staff probably wouldn’t pay him much attention.

The bookshop he was in was getting busy too, Harry realised as he looked around. The morning was well on its way to fading into lunchtime, in fact, Harry was starting to get extremely hungry. He hadn’t eaten since the vending machine in Surrey.

Harry dug in his pocket and pulled out his list. There were no more books that he’d made a note of, but he picked up the Atlas and _The Long Haul_ and took them to the counter on his way back to the Quidditch section. “Can I leave these here?” he asked, and receiving a nod from Bibiana, continued on. He found _The National Flyer_ guides, but he felt that ‘Ten Places to Visit in the French Alps’ wasn’t going to be much help to him, and he decided _The Long Haul_ was probably enough. There was a slim guide called _Life on the Broom_ which was half memoir, half instruction book, and had enough useful charms and spells slipped between anecdotes that Harry thought it worth the cost. While a number of the flying books looked interesting, especially one brightly coloured cloth bound hardback called _Build Your Own Broomstick_. Harry forced himself to stay focused and left it on the shelf.

Remembering the other topics he’d wanted to research, he slowly walked around the bookshop, stopping at the section on wandlore, before moving on when he saw no mention of wandless magic. Towards the back, but on the other side from the maps, he found a number of books focused on Muggleborns, including a fairly battered, but still serviceable _Muggleborn’s Guide to Magic_ , which, Harry found upon opening it, was actually pretty useful. 

It dealt with Platform Nine and three-quarters for one thing; information he could have used the first time around. A lot of the other things were in the same vein, useful, but things that Harry had learnt in the end. Putting the book back, Harry saw the same author had written a little collection of books on the topic, one called a _Muggleborn’s Guide to Magical Geography_ , which Harry thought was exactly the kind of thing he had been thinking of when Tom had talked about other access points to Diagon Alley. Opening it, Harry saw it had a quick overview of magical transportation methods, as well as major wizarding towns and villages. The rest of the book dealt, as Harry had hoped with the various places where magic and Muggle intersected, as well as the reserves and magical-only places. It was concerned mostly with Britain, but there was a shorter section at the back that dealt with other countries ordered by continent.

Harry placed it carefully by his feet and kept scanning. A lot of the books were a total waste of time, he noticed things that Mr Weasley would probably find fascinating, but were full of misinformation and with a tone that was more than a little patronising. He ended up returning to the same author, there a _Muggleborn’s Guide to Magical Creatures_ , which Harry flicked through, but, while the author was clearly respectful of Muggleborns and Muggle culture, that same respect didn’t, unfortunately, extend to magical creatures. Harry decided he preferred their Scamander textbook a great deal and slid the book back on the shelf.

The mention of magical creatures had reminded him of the Goblins, however, and he wondered if there was anything on Goblin customs, might turn out useful to know something other than the dates of the wars, he thought. 

Moving away from the Muggle-born aisle, Harry’s attention was caught by a number of extremely Muggle paperbacks, on a bottom shelf. Wondering if he would find a copy of the book he left on the train, Harry ducked down to take a look.

He was running a finger along the titles when he heard footsteps come up behind him, and turned around quickly, only to be faced with an unexpectedly familiar face. In fact, it was only the shock at being faced with a _young_ version of his friend that stopped him blurting out ‘Dean!’ at the boy.

“Sorry,” Dean said. “Didn’t mean to startle you.” 

“You didn’t,” Harry said after a second. He knew he was staring and he knew he ought to stop, but it was just so strange to see those familiar features, that familiar face, but not trapped in a photograph, but right here in front of him.

Dean, clearly a little creeped out by Harry’s staring, stepped around him and started looking over the books on the shelf next to him.

Harry forced himself to turn away, and stared, unseeing at the books in front of him.

He realised his heart was beating quickly. Not because he’d been startled. He’d heard Dean’s footsteps coming. It was the fact that Dean was here, a child. 

Harry knew this was really happening he'd been at the Dursleys’ for Merlin’s sake. He’s seen his own ten-year-old body. But seeing Dean, someone he knew. Not just that, Harry realised, but someone he knew in the wizarding world. 

Despite knowing he really was in the past, he’d still been imagining Hogwarts continuing as normal. He kept thinking of Hermione and Ron as adults for Merlin’s sake. But they weren’t, he realised, his chest growing tight. They really weren’t. 

He snuck a look at Dean out of the corner of his eye. They were children. Tiny, ten-year-old innocent, children.

Harry wanted to cry.

“This yours?” 

Harry blinked rapidly and turned. Dean was hesitantly holding out the Muggleborn guide that Harry had placed on the floor.

“Yeah, Yes,” Harry said, stuttering slightly. “Thanks.”

Dean handed it over and Harry, realising it was the only copy on the shelf, pushed it back into Dean’s hand.

“Actually don’t worry about it,” he said.

“You sure?” Dean asked raising his eyebrows. 

“Yeah, it’s fine. I’ve got to go to the other shop anyway, on Daigon?” he said, trying to breathe calmly and not let the shake enter his voice. He couldn’t get over how young Dean looked. “I can pick up another copy there.”

“I mean, I don’t want to take it if it’s...”

“Honestly,” Harry said. “It’s fine.” He thought about saying something about getting a new copy instead, but remembering how touchy Ron had been about that sort of thing, he didn’t want to risk alienating his friend. 

Not his friend, Harry thought with a pang. Just a stranger. He turned away.

“They’re meant to be pretty good, these books,” Dean said. Harry just nodded, without looking at him. “That’s what the lady said,” Dean continued, waving his hand towards the counter.

“Bibiana,” Harry said after a moment.

“Yeah…” Dean paused. “You know her?”

 

“No,” Harry said, finally turning back to Dean, “just her name.”

“Oh right.” Dean was clearly gearing up to ask a question and Harry wondered what he knew about attitudes towards Muggleborns it was the sort of knowledge that, once picked up, he imagined wasn’t easy to forget.

“So, you’re Muggleborn then?” Dean asked, and Harry could detect nothing but interest in his voice. He supposed standing in front of the Muggleborn section was something of a giveaway.

“No,” Harry replied, “but I was raised in the Muggle world.”

“Oh right,” Dean said. “It’s cool isn’t it?” He added, leaning forward conspiratorially.

Harry frowned in confusion. “Cool?”

“All this,” he said. “Magic.” His voice dropping slightly.

Harry looked at him. Cool. He supposed, yeah, it was. He smiled slightly. Dean seemed so very young.

“Mum took me out of school today to do visit this place,” he continued, clearly high on the excitement of truancy as much as magic. “I’m Dean by the way,” he said offering his hand.

“Harry,” Harry said feeling a strange sense of deja-vu.

“So, you doing your Hogwarts shopping?” Dean asked.

“No,” Harry said. “I haven’t got my letter yet, just… browsing,” He said, which had the benefit of not being a total lie.

Dean nodded his head, “Cool, that’s cool.”

Harry’s smile turned a little sad. He wasn’t sure how often Dean had used that word at Hogwarts. It wasn’t exactly required that you drop your Muggle turns of phrase at school, but it still happened.

“What are you looking for?” Dean asked.

Harry shrugged, “There was a Muggle book I liked, but it’s not here…” he trailed off.

“Probably have better luck trying Waterstones.” Dean grinned.

“Yeah,” Harry laughed. “I should do that.” He thought about it and couldn’t remember a single time he’d entered a Muggle bookshop. The Dursleys had certainly never taken him.

“Dean?” Harry heard a voice call out from behind them and, turning, he saw what must be Dean’s mother advancing upon them. She was a short, black woman of medium build with a slightly frantic look on her face that faded a little when she saw them. “Oh, there you are.”

“Hi, Mum, look.” Dean showed his mother the book. 

She seemed a little shocked by the moving illustration on the front, but rallied admirably and gave her son a proud look. “Oh good, well done.” She smiled at him, resting her hand on his shoulder. “Do you only need the one?” she asked, looking up at the shelves. “Look there are more,” she said, starting to pull out the one on magical creatures.

“Don’t take that one,” Harry said and Dean and his mother looked at him in surprise.

“Uh, Mum this is Harry. Harry, my Mum,” Dean said quickly, waving his hand between them.

Harry shuffled his weight, feeling a bit silly, but powered on anyhow. “He’s not very fair to magical creatures in that book. _Fantastic Beasts_ is better, it’s on the Hogwarts list.”

“Oh,” Dean’s mother said and flipping the book over in her hand, she looked back down at Harry. “Are you starting at the school too, love?”

Harry hitched his shoulder in a shrug. “Probably, but I haven’t got my letter yet.”

Her hand was still on Dean’s shoulder and the sight of it was making something in Harry’s chest itch. Kind of like the feeling when Mrs Weasley would grab him up in a hug.

“I should probably-” he gestured vaguely towards the entrance to the shop and started to shuffle away.

“See you at school,” Dean said, with a hopeful smile. Harry just nodded and quickly made his way to the counter

He felt too awkward to stick around looking for a book on Goblins, and he decided he’d leave it until he got to Flourish and Blotts. He noticed the quills on the table, however, and before leaving he quickly walked over to the stationary section and gathered a handful of quills, two pots of blue and black ink and a neat stack of scrolls. 

There was a string bound parchment notebook and one that looked a lot more like a Muggle exercise book, albeit with thicker paper, that Harry, after a moment's thought, swapped them out for the scrolls. They might be a requirement for homework, but he’d always found them extremely unwieldy. He’d realised with a start that he recognised these notebooks. They were the ones Hermione had always use for her revision notes. He ran his fingers over the black cover with a pang of longing and was about to leave when he noticed the letter paper and envelopes in the corner. He grabbed a small set and brought them back to the till.

Bibiana, who had counted up his books by this point, calmly added the stationary to his selection. “That’s all?” She asked. Harry considered asking about wandless magic, and goblins. But he could still see Dean and his mother standing at the back of the shop, and the sight of them made his chest tighten again so he just shook his head at Bibiana, his lips pressed together. 

Harry paid, and Bibiana wrapped his purchases in brown paper tied with string, before shrinking the whole thing down for him. Harry, who realised he was going to have trouble unshrinking everything should the Trace still be working, still felt too unsettled to say anything, and he just thanked her briefly before making his escape.

The crescent was now bustling with shoppers and Harry decided, rather than traipse around Diagon, he may as well eat at the cafe next to him. The tables outside were crowded with people enjoying the sunshine, so Harry ducked into the slightly darker interior and selected a table near the window, where he could look out on the street.

He rested his rucksack on the floor and leant his broom up against the wall, unbuttoning his cloak as he looked around. The tables near him were empty, in fact, the inside of the cafe was much less busy with only about half the tables occupied. 

A short wizard, mostly hidden behind his copy of the Daily Prophet sat at the window table opposite and on the side nearest the counter, a witch with a baby in, what Harry guessed was a kind of pushchair, only it was attached to a broom and currently hovering at about head height. The kid, who Harry vaguely placed as a toddler, was bashing the countertop with a bright green spoon and having a great time. He seemed to be making less noise than he should, and after a second Harry realised the witch must have cast a muffling spell around them.

The waitress, who Harry recognised from the tent-testing earlier, approached after a moment to take his order and Harry dragged his attention away from the child. The waitress’s flyway blonde hair was now tied in a neat ponytail, though some strands slipped down around her face in a way Harry thought was pretty. Harry guessed she was about the same age as the attendant in the clothes shop, but unlike him, her eyes and her small mouth were rather stern. 

Harry, who wasn’t quite ready to order, hummed and hawed over the menu until he caught sight of the blackboard across from him. “Soup of the day,” he said, pointing. She nodded, made a mark in her notebook and walked briskly back towards the counter. She looked, Harry thought, like a long-legged bird, picking its way through a swamp. It wasn’t a bad look, he thought, kind of delicate. He realised he was still watching her and turned away to face the window.

The tables outside were mostly filled with workers on their lunch breaks, Harry decided. Apart from a group of three witches, each with bags stacked around their feet, the others were all wearing what Harry considered smart wizarding robes. In fact, looking closely, Harry thought he recognised the Slug and Jiggers logo on a slightly spotty young man sitting on the table closest to the street. He was leaning in slightly to listen to what his friend was saying, and with a start, Harry recognised the attendant from Dud’s Duds. He was gesturing expressively as he talked and Harry saw him smile a second before the Slug and Jiggers shop attendant laughed loudly enough that Harry heard it inside the shop.

Something about their easy familiarity with each other made an ache start behind Harry’s ribs and he rubbed gently at his collarbone. 

He wasn’t an idiot, he knew what he was missing. More accurately, he knew _who_ he was missing. He looked down at his table and unfolded then folded the paper napkin under his cutlery. His hand still felt strange, he noticed. When he focused on it, he could feel the spider web strands of the vow. Luckily the stiffness from the wandless magic had almost entirely faded.

Wandless magic, Harry thought, fixing on a topic that was less fraught than his absent friends. Yeah. He absolutely had to find out more about that. Harry pulled his list out of his pocket. His quills were all shrunk, so he made a mental note to add wandless magic, and books on goblins. 

He wasn’t entirely sure how much he cared about goblin traditions really. He wanted to know more about wizarding finances and laws on inheritance and so on, but he thought the _Muggleborn Guide_ would probably do for that. No, learning about goblins, he realised, was mostly to make sure he didn’t make a fool of himself in front of Orgik when he returned, but it also made him think of History of Magic lessons and Goblin wars, which was so boring he was tempted not to bother at all. 

He remembered Griphook’s unrelenting hatred of witches and wizards. It wasn’t so much from a desire to understand their traditions, Harry thought. He wasn’t like Hermione, (of the two of them, he thought she had more of a saving people thing than he did,) but on a more practical level, he thought he might need goblin help to get the Horcrux from Bellatrix’ vault and for that reason alone, he ought to learn how to ask for things without giving offence.

He looked down at the paper and felt a little bad for being so mercenary. 

His food arrived at this point and Harry pushed the list, and his thoughts, to the side. The soup, a summer vegetable broth, was steaming hot. Harry broke off chunks of the thick, dark bread that came with it, and dunked them in, blowing on each piece to cool it before eating. It was delicious and Harry was soon entirely distracted from his research plans by his meal.

Harry grew full long before the soup was finished, and Harry considered the food left in the bowl, abashed. He felt like he should make more of an effort. He’d never liked leaving food, it seemed, not just wasteful, but like poor decision making. Who knew when he’d eat again?

Harry blinked. He knew when he’d eat again. Harry thought. He was going to buy food. He was going to have his own food.

Harry leaned back in his chair a little, resting his hand on his stomach. He hadn’t had control of his own kitchen before. Even at Grimmauld, people usually came over and brought food with them, or he was out so much, he ate somewhere else. He wasn’t great with food. He knew this. Well, Hermione had mentioned something, and actually, it had been Ron who’d noticed Harry didn’t always stop for meals. Maybe because Ron always did, Harry thought with a smile. Harry had a tendency to just keep going until he was suddenly aware his stomach was aching. He supposed he was used to getting by on only a little. He didn’t want to think of the Dursleys, so Harry pushed his bowl away and looked out of the window again.

The man from Dud’s Duds and his friend were gone, but the rest of the people were still there, and Harry realised he had finished his soup rather quickly. The shoppers were still chatting, they had one of the bags on the table, and were looking at whatever it is they’d bought. Harry thought it must be a magical device of some kind because he didn’t recognise it at all. It looked like it was at least partially made of wood, with a row of brass knobs sticking out one side.

The rest of the workers on their lunch breaks were either sitting in twos or on their own. One man had his head deep in the _Potions Periodical_ , which made Harry suddenly think of Snape. Snape was alive right now, he thought and this made him think of Dean and how young he was and Harry realised he was going to have trouble keeping everything separate in his mind when he met all the people he already knew.

He glanced back at the Potions Periodical reader, but the man definitely had curly brown hair, and since Harry couldn’t think of any reason Snape would be here in disguise… Except for the fact that _Harry_ was here, he thought. But then, Harry thought, stemming a rising wave of panic. It’d be a pretty crappy disguise to come here and then start reading about Potions.

Still, Harry couldn’t entirely shake off his unease, and he waved to get the waitress’s attention. 

He really didn’t think Dumbledore could have tracked him down so soon, he insisted to himself. What purpose would it serve anyway, to have Snape traipsing around behind him?

The waitress finally came over and Harry paid up. He glanced at his list before he put it in his pocket. Drop the broom off first, he thought, then books.

Harry strolled out of the shop, deliberately not looking at the Potions reader until the last second, and then stealing a quick look out of the corner of his eye to take in his brown robe, grey trousers, white shirt, and a final scan of his face. Pretty sure he’d be able to recognise the man even if he made some effort to disguise himself again, barring a whole new outfit, Harry continued on his way, and, as he turned the corner back into Diagon, he was glad to see the man didn’t follow.

Accepting that he was being excessively paranoid, Harry walked down to Quality Quidditch feeling a little less worried.

The shop was busy and in his new cloak, he didn’t think the shopkeeper recognised him. Harry eventually got his attention and showed him his new broom, listing the spells he could remember Lucy mentioning, but finally ending with, “and anything else you think would be useful for take-off and landing in Muggle locations.”

The shopkeeper paid more attention to the broom than Harry and fingered the scratch softly before turning to Harry. “Sure, we can do that. You want this looked at too?”

Harry raised his eyebrows. “Can you do something about it?” He’d been resigning himself to having to deal with the manoeuvrability issues while he flew.

“Oh yeah, certainly,” the man said. “Fill it, that’d be one option, Comets are almost all oak nowadays, I can use sawdust for that, but…” He ran his finger around the shaft. “Pretty thick these Comets. Between you and me, it’s not all that necessary. Could sand it down for you. It’ll need a whole new varnish and new application of the usual smoothing charms, and…” He tilted his head. “Might mean a reduction in suspension charms, but, eh, who needs that when playing Quidditch eh?” He looked down at Harry with a grin.

Harry, who would usually be inclined to agree, knew that he’d be thankful for those charms on the long flight, and anyway, he thought the second procedure sounded expensive. “Actually, if it’s okay, I think I’ll just go for the first option, with the sawdust.”

The shopkeeper, if he was disappointed, hid it well, and simply nodded.

Harry, thinking an explanation couldn’t hurt, added. “I’m going to use it on a camping trip… I don’t suppose there are any charms that would help for long distance travel?”

“Oh, well,” the shopkeeper nodded, seeming to understand. “Of course. Cushioning charms first and foremost, and a bit more for stability, though, to be honest Comet’s are pretty good with that.”

Harry nodded. “How much for the cushioning and the rest?” Harry asked finally. “And how long will it take?”

The shopkeeper turned the broomstick this way and that and finally said. “Five galleons. Ready to pick up tomorrow morning.” Harry, with no real idea if this was a good price or not, simply agreed to it and followed the shopkeeper over to the till. He’d hoped to have the broom back today, but he guessed he wasn’t exactly planning to rush off to Romania tonight. 

He tried to work out how many galleons he had left as he counted out the five for the broom charms. A few hundred at least, he thought. Easily enough he reassured himself.

Handing over the broomstick, Harry remembered the compass, and the shopkeeper, getting a scroll and quill out from under the desk, merely pointed him over to a display in the corner of the room that had all sorts of useful odds and ends. Harry looked over the selection of broom compasses. He recognised the kind he’d bought Ron in fifth year, but there were a few more elaborate ones, similar to the Weasley clock, that had directions for ‘destination’ ‘home’, ‘safety’, ‘lost’, ‘help’, ‘mortal peril’ and a few others. Harry thought that might be a bit more useful, and picked it up.

Heading back to the counter, he saw the shopkeeper had finished filling out the form and attached a corresponding tag to the broomstick. “Just need your name, lad,” he said, looking down at Harry. Harry, who realised he should have seen this coming, decided he’d better not pick a wizarding name on the off chance that his schoolmates would come in here.

“Dudley,” he said hoping that would be enough. The shopkeeper wrote this down. 

“And surname?” He asked. 

Harry thought quickly. “James,” he said, after a second. The shopkeeper didn’t seem to notice the pause, and he ripped off the top half of the scroll, handing it to Harry and placed the bottom half on a stack behind the desk.

Harry, glad he’d got out of that so easily, but still feeling awkward about lying, paid quickly for his compass and tucked it into his rucksack.

Harry exited the shop and headed quickly down to Flourish and Blotts. He hadn’t entirely shaken off his paranoia from earlier, but he was glad to see neither hide nor hair of the Potions reader, and he looked hard at the one woman he saw wearing a short brown cloak, but the cut was entirely different, and anyway, she had a flowery dress sticking out under the hem. Harry was, in fact, rather intrigued by the idea of a short cloak. It sort of looked like a long jacket, and Harry hadn’t seen a wizarding outfit like that before. Not that he’d really seen that many, being mostly surrounded by school uniforms.

He thought about the Dudley James issue. He didn’t want, particularly, to be remembered as a Dudley, and he wished he’d thought of a different name. Maybe Evan, he thought. Evan James, which would, in a way, be a nod to both his parents. But he hoped he wouldn’t have to continue this subterfuge much longer anyway. He wasn’t planning to hide forever after all. 

He considered the question. He did enjoy travelling around without being recognised. It was, possibly, the best part of this whole trip, the freedom to just, well, be ignored. It was true that Lucy Chang had treated him totally normally, well, mostly. But he was inclined to consider her an exception. He thought of the stern mouthed cafe owner. He bet she wouldn’t have been so brusque had she known, but Harry thought he preferred that over the fawning he might have received. 

He shrugged it off as he approached Flourish and Blotts, he could always think up an alter-ego some other time, he guessed. His face would become recognisable soon enough anyway, so a name on its own wouldn’t be much protection.

Harry entered the shop and was immediately embraced by the familiar smell of new books and the rustling sounds they made as they settled into their shelves. There was, he thought, a certain freshness to these books that the Bibliophile didn’t have. Those books were older and calmer, he thought.

He was, by this time, starting to get a little weary of shopping, so instead of wandering about, he headed straight for the counter and got the attendant’s attention. 

“I’m looking for books on the kinds of wards placed on the borders between countries,” Harry said directly. 

The attendant, a very short man, with long black hair plaited behind his head, blinked down at Harry, then his eyes flicked to the side as he seemed to consult a mental catalogue. Harry was glad the man hadn’t shown any surprise at the odd request, but then, this was a bookshop, of all the places where children might come to find out about odd things, this was probably the place. He was probably used to it.

“We have some wizarding geography texts in the Hogwarts section, he said after a moment, however, if you’re looking for specific wards… those books can be rather… heavy.” He looked down at Harry, and Harry realised he wasn’t sure a ten-year-old kid would be able to understand them. He was, Harry realised, still giving him the choice, so clearly, he had come across enough Hermione-like students in his time.

“I’ll look at the specific books first please,” Harry said, trying to channel Hermione.

The man nodded and he gestured for Harry to follow him, leading Harry up onto the mezzanine and down one side. He spent a moment scanning the shelves, and then let out a little “Ah ha!”

Harry looked over at him.

“Hm, one-second young sir,” the man said, glancing about. He walked back towards the stairs, then picked up a stool that was sitting at the base of one of the shelves, carrying it back to where Harry was waiting.

He stepped up onto the stool and indicated a shelf in the middle. “Foreign border spells start here, ordered by continent.” Then he pointed at the higher shelves. “Above is British,” he added.

“That’s great,” Harry said. “Thank you.”

The man nodded, hopped down from the stool and disappeared back down the stairs. Harry climbed up and began to scan the shelves. The books, he realised, were for the most part aimed at either lawyers or law students. They had long, complicated titles, and were bound in dark, heavy cloth. He felt a little intimidated. Maybe he should have asked for the Hogwarts books. Then he felt foolish. He was almost eighteen for Merlin’s sake. He could read a damn law book.

He ran his finger over the books’ spines and was going to pick one at random when he saw a phrase he recognised. _A Compendium of Great Works in Wizarding Europe_. Great Works, Harry thought. Could that be anything like the Great Workings Ollivander had mentioned?

The book, which was one of the larger ones, was heavy to pull out and Harry almost dropped it, then almost fell off the stool trying to catch it. He jumped to the floor and glanced about, embarrassed, but no-one seemed to have noticed, indeed, he was the only person in this section of the mezzanine.

Sitting on the stool, Harry opened the book up to the Introduction.

"“Being in its entirety a complete collection of the Great Workings of Wizarding Europe from 1000 to the present day. This book is both a catalogue and guide to lawmaker and layperson alike...”"

It continued in this vein, and Harry, wincing a little at the language, flipped to the front where the publication date was from only a couple of years ago. Well, it should be pretty up to date then, he thought.

Harry turned back to the introduction. The language was a bit grand, but it was a fairly modern book, so nothing as bad as some of the Medieval texts in Hogwarts library. Binns had been the worst for assigning them reading lists from the 12th Century he remembered, shaking his head.

He moved past, to the contents. Happily, for him, the author had made the sensible decision of grouping the Workings by topic and had even included a short line in italics explaining what each one was. Under ‘Restrictions on Magical Persons’, he read:

“The Trace  
_A spell to track underage magic”_

He made a note of the page number, then kept scanning the contents until he reached ‘Restrictions on movement of Magical Creatures’ and then there below was listed “Restrictions on movement of Magical Persons’. He wasn’t surprised they were listed separately, though he was surprised how many of the Workings could be summed up as ‘Restrictions’.

He guessed it depended on your perspective. To take his own blood wards, for example, he’d always resented them as restrictions more than been grateful for them as a defence.

Harry felt rather in charity with the author after that, and he ran his finger down until he reached

“Beating the Bounds  
_a spell to protect the borders of a country or city”_

Harry thought that looked pretty hopeful, and checking the page number, he quickly lifted a chunk of pages until he reached the place somewhere in the middle of the book.

"Beating the Bounds, traditionally known as ‘going-a-ganging’ is a traditional warding ritual from the early Eleventh Century. The minor working requires a group of witches and wizards, (often representatives of either each household, in the case of a village or of each Guild in the case of a town) to walk the borders of the parish or county while casting the below incantations. This would have the dual benefit of providing magical protection and giving inhabitants a greater familiarity with the lay of their land."

"The Great Working took this same basic warding framework and extended it to cover a country. As with other wards of a similar nature (communal wards, see p280) the spell requires pecific representatives of the location’s inhabitants working in tandem with each other, often combining magical ability in a group casting."

", Unlike other communal wards, however, this Working borrowed from static warding technique, requiring specific _lapis locii_ , carved with runic inscriptions to literally ‘pin’ the ward in place. These lapis locii, occasionally built into boundary walls or forts, as in traditional static warding relating to dwellings, were more often buried directly in the ground. With either a section of the stone or a separate marker placed on the surface."

"This technique allowed, in later years, for a certain flexibility of border lines. Once a border was re-drawn on a map, either via treaty or conquest, the _lapis locii_ were simply dug up and buried anew."

This was all very informative, Harry thought, but, he flipped through the pages, trying to find the end of the section. It went on for ages, and he didn’t want to sit here reading the whole thing. Harry levered the book shut and stood up. He’d take it. If he had no luck, he’d bring it back tomorrow and exchange it for something else. Or, hell, maybe he’d keep it. The tent could do with a bookshelf, he thought.

Harry carefully carried the heavy book back down the stairs to the counter, and, catching sight of the same attendant asked if he could leave it there. He also took the opportunity to ask him about the other topics he was interested in.

The attendant, eyeing the growing queue, didn’t escort Harry this time, simply told him where to find the section on non-wanded magics, and pointed to the other side of the shop where a sign on the side of the bookshelf read ‘magical creatures’. 

In his previous visits to the shop, Harry had, for the most part, remained in the children and student section. He passed it on his way to the back and saw a group of younger children gathered together in a corner that had been set up for story-time. The children sat on cushions on a coloured rug, and in the centre, one of the shop attendants was reading from a large book, and occasionally showing the children the moving pictures. 

Harry, who had never visited the shop on a term-time weekday before, realised it must be something the shop put on for young, magical children.

The section that had all the Hogwarts textbooks, both old and new, was entirely empty of shoppers, and it felt strange to walk past it when usually it was full to bustling with other students on the back-to-school run. Noticing a shelf on Muggle Studies books, Harry suddenly remembered he needed a copy of the _Muggleborn Guide_ , and he changed direction, scanning the entire Hogwarts section until he finally found a narrow shelf towards the corner of the room. 

They had the entire _Muggleborn Guide_ set, so he grabbed the one on Geography, running his eye quickly over the other titles. He thought he might buy a few of the others, he noticed they had one for each of the Hogwarts classes as well as a few others on a range of topics from other Muggle sounding subjects like History and Literature, to Etiquette and Quidditch. But as they weren’t a priority, he left them for now and followed the shelves around, the path between them a little winding, and he kept a lookout for the shelf signs until finally, he caught sight of one that read, in neat letters, ‘Non-Wanded Magics’.

There were, he noticed, quite a lot of books, almost the entire corner was devoted to the section, but stepping closer, Harry realised the topics were not purely on what he thought of as wandless magic. Oh, that was there too, but there was almost an entire shelf devoted to Animagus transformation, another shelf on Mind Magics, and then a long section on Runes, that Harry saw continued out of the corner and down the wall. Beyond that, Harry thought he recognised some of the Arithmetic titles he’d seen Hermione use. He realised that a lot of magic, was in a sense, wandless, or, non-wanded, he supposed, glancing at the sign. In fact, the section probably continued to include Potions at some point.

Harry moved back to the first shelf of the section on the kind of wandless magic he wanted, dropping his rucksack to the floor beside him. There were a few books on the history of wandless magic, some biographies of famous individuals who had practised wandless magic, quite a lot on early British magical people and their use of wandless magic, and then an extremely long section on other societies that didn’t use wands, but only towards the end, right down on the bottom shelf, did Harry find the kind of book he was looking for.

 _Witch Without a Wand_ , the title read in glittering silvered letters. Harry pulled the book out. It was a small, fat book, with a handsome dark brown cover. Harry opened it up. The inscription in the front said:

“ _For Sylvia, who had power, even when powerless”_

He traced the words softly with his fingertip, then flicked forward to the introduction. The book, he read, was a collaboration, the initial draft written by a witch who had died sometime in the late nineteenth century, and had been completed by her daughter many years later. (Neither of them, he noted, were called Sylvia).

"Wandless magic is not simply a branch of magic. It is, in fact, the original and the purest form of magic working. Without a wand, writing implements, ingredients and tools, all that is left is the focus the caster, and the desire to see her will be done. The entire history of wandless magic, or what, in this book shall simply be called, magic, is a topic far too broad and far too fraught to be attempted in a single book, and that endeavour I shall leave to writers better versed and more rigorous than I. _(See reading list 1)._ ”"

"This book is, rather, concerned with the plight of the modern witch. The witch who, recognising a wand is but a tool, seeks to connect with the magic within her own body. The witch who, recognising the dangerous times in which we live, seeks the protection of her own magic. The witch who, seeing injustice in the world, seeks the common thread that runs through all those touched by magic, creature and human alike."

Harry, rather impressed by the tone, realised that the dangerous times the author mentioned, must have been the rise of Grindelwald, and felt that this book was probably especially relevant now, with another Dark Lord just biding his time before he tried to come back.

Harry jumped forward to a random page in the centre of the book. There was a small illustration of a hand and, as he watched, it moved through two different gestures that reminded Harry of what Ogrik had done during the Fiscal Vow. The text below described the movement, and something called the ‘attitude of the caster’, which Harry thought was basically the caster’s emotional and focus. It talked a bit about the purpose of the spell (this was a spell to exchange one item for another) the commonalities with wanded spells, and the possible uses and variants of the spell.

Harry couldn’t think of anything more comprehensive. He flipped back to the contents and scanned it. The bit he had been reading was under the list of unspoken magics, but there was also a section on spoken magic and at the starting section a whole bunch of chapters dedicated to attitude and physical form. Right at the beginning, was a chapter called When to Stop. Which Harry thought was an odd place to start. Turning the page to it, he saw printed in red letters:

"If you are in pain. STOP."

Right, Harry thought, flexing his hand. Easy for you to say.

"While itchiness, soreness, stiffness and a host of minor complaints are common in early or extended use of wandless magic, the difference between what we may call magical muscle fatigue, and true over-extension is obvious. Just as an athlete knows the difference between muscles sore from a workout and a pulled muscle, a magic user must listen to their body. In this way, they will not only learn to understand their limits, but they will also know better their own magic, as it inhabits their body."

It then went on to list common warning signs of over-extension, which basically boiled down to: pain. It also listed a few examples of what had happened to people who overdid it, including one extreme example of a witch who spent her entire magical core in protecting her town, and ended up a squib because of it. The author, Harry noted, made it clear that the witch had realised what was happening but went ahead anyway.

"A true magic caster not only knows the limits of their magic and their body but also of their will and of their heart. We do not all choose our battlefields but we can choose to fight."

Harry closed the book and scanned the front cover for the authors’ names. Alyssa and Amira Shafiq, he read. He tapped the cover, wondering what part either of them had played in the war against Grindelwald.

Harry stood finally, holding the book in his hands. He glanced at the Animagus section. He’d never thought to learn before, but the idea was extremely attractive. Sirius would be proud he thought, and that thought was enough to tip him over his indecision and make him take a step closer. He wasn’t sure if he’d get in trouble for buying a book like this. If anyone asked, he supposed he could just say he was picking up for his imaginary older brother. His imaginary, totally law-abiding older brother who was definitely planning on registering. Harry grinned.

He scanned the titles. There were almost all guides to the transformation itself, he saw. Only a handful on the history of the spell, and a few on the Animagus transformation in other cultures, variants and one book on Metamorphmagi that had colour changing text and Harry thought instantly of buying for Teddy until he remembered that, right here, Teddy didn’t exist.

The thought was so depressing, he almost gave up, finally reaching out and picking the first book he saw with a red cover, purely on account of the colour.

He opened it halfway and scanned the text. It looked fairly straightforward, nothing too flowery, and they talked about mental state and will, which reminded Harry enough of the other wandless book, that he decided to buy it.

He was, he realised as he picked up his rucksack, not being exactly money conscious, he hadn’t checked the prices of any of these, in fact. But he was ready to leave the shop now, and he felt his earlier care all morning had to make up for it.

He wound around to the other side of the shop and walked down the magical creatures section briefly, but the section was so large and the bookshelf on goblins so full of the goblin war texts he recognised from History, that he gave up without even trying and turned on his heel.

He would, he promised himself, come back another time. He’d be back here tomorrow morning for the broom. He could try then.

After paying for his purchases (a great deal more than in the Bibliophile), Harry tucked his now shrunk books into his rucksack and stepped into an empty corner to check his list. He still needed shoes, he remembered, glancing down at his tatty trainers. No point buying a whole new wardrobe and keeping these. And he needed underclothes as well. He wasn't keen on the wizarding varieties, that all seemed extremely old-fashioned to him, so he decided those he would pick up in Muggle London.

His shoes, however, he’d get here. Wizarding shoes, he knew, tended to last longer than Muggle ones, especially with growing charms. And he wanted all the extras for his long flight. 

That just left food.

Harry had no idea how to buy food in the Wizarding world. It was something he had literally never done before. He had, he realised, always had a house elf, whether Kreacher or the Hogwarts elves, to provide food for him. Hermione would be ashamed of him, he thought. 

He’d never seen a wizarding supermarket or grocery store. He decided the sight of a ten-year-old shopping for a week’s worth of food was going to seem unusual enough, he didn’t fancy going around asking where to find one on top of that. He couldn’t exactly use the Muggleborn excuse on food after all.

He decided he’d have to do it in the Muggle world, and just think up some other excuse, like, his dad had broken his leg, thinking of Mrs Figg, or was waiting in the car for him or something. In his brief experience, people who worked in supermarkets were usually so utterly bored by everything that happened in front of them, they were very unlikely to care at all about a ten-year-old doing the weekly shopping. They’d certainly paid no attention when he’d tagged after Aunt Petunia in Dudley’s cast-offs, or when she’d glared and pinched him to hurry packing the bags, or when Dudley had knocked him into the wall over and over while they were waiting for Aunt Petunia to pay.

Harry rubbed his hands up and down his arms and looked around. He should probably get going, he thought. And gripped his rucksack straps tightly as he made for the doors.

**

Harry decided to try Madam Malkin’s for shoes. He’d ended up buying a pair from her in his third year and they’d served him pretty well. He thought there was a magical cobbler off one of the side streets, but he couldn’t remember which and he didn’t want to be traipsing up and down Diagon Alley any longer, his feet were getting tired.

Madam Malkin’s was quiet, with only one other customer, an older witch with white hair standing on the platform being measured. One of the attendants, not the Madam herself, came up to him.

“I need some shoes,” he said when she asked, and they both looked down at his feet. Harry thought he caught her grimace in distaste, but it was gone so quickly, he wondered if he’d imagined it.

“Of course sir,” she said. “Right this way.”

She took him over to the shoe display, and Harry quickly made his way to the section he’d gone to before. The smart shoes would look very proper under his uniform, but he was more likely to get into a scrape, so he passed them over for the boots. He couldn’t see any exactly like the ones he’d had the first time, but he found a similar style in smart black leather with a good thick tread that he thought would keep him upright if he was running about in, oh, for example, the slimy subterranean gloom of the Chamber of Secrets.

Harry looked around for the attendant, but she seemed to have disappeared, and Harry backtracked out of the shoe section to the counter where he found her talking to a colleague. He stood and waited for her to stop, but she didn’t seem to notice him despite, Harry was sure, her eyes flicking in his direction at least twice. Harry, feeling a little fed up by this point, walked forwards and put the boot on the counter with a bit more force than completely necessary. This time he caught the moue of distaste on her lips before it disappeared behind her professional smile.

“These in my size please,” Harry said shortly.

She took the shoe with careful fingers and turned and disappeared into the back of the shop.

The other attendant looked calmly out over Harry’s head, into the shop floor.

Harry, who wasn’t sure if he was over-reacting, dropped his rucksack on the floor by the counter and scratched the back of his hand. He remembered Malkin’s staff as being extremely friendly first time around. Maybe they were new and the Madam hadn't trained them up properly yet?

Harry turned to look around the shop, his gaze falling on the lady who had been being measured earlier. Clearly, the measurements were done, she was now standing very still as another attendant, plus the Madam herself, Harry realised, recognising her from the back by her grey hair, carefully pinned the robes around her.

They were a pale eggshell blue and very silky and Harry thought they looked rather dramatic, with a long sweep at the back, crossways between a cloak and that long skirt that women had on wedding dresses.

As he watched, Madam Malkin and the attendant finally stepped back, and the lady carefully turned this way and that to look at herself in the mirrors.

“Yes,” she said finally. “Not quite as Angélique would do it, but it will suffice.”

Madam Malkin murmured something and the woman shook her head, her fine white hair never moving from its elegant coiffure. 

“Oh as if you could ever compete with a Parisian atelier, Madam. Please.” She sniffed.

Harry, who was starting to realise exactly the kind of shop Madam Malkin’s was, was interrupted from his thoughts by the return of the attendant with his shoes.

He thanked her, and she gave him the same practised smile, but he noticed she was careful not to come to close as she handed the box over to him.

Harry took the box back to the shoe section, remembering the previous time when the assistant had brought the box right to him and even taken the shoe out and loosened the laces. 

Harry sat down on the bench and placed the box beside him.

He guessed the fact that this was the first place he’d ever met Draco Malfoy should have clued him in and a moment later, he realised that, while the attendant wasn’t here to attend him, she was watching him keenly from her vantage point at the counter. The kind of watching that in Harry’s experience usually ended up in him being followed around and eventually all the way out of a shop.

Great. Harry thought.

Was it just his trainers, he wondered? Did they think he was some kind of urchin?

He took the shoes out of the box, loosened the laces and used the leather tab at the back to pull them on. He walked up and down a bit, then decided to wander around the shop, less because he needed to test the shoes (they fit snugly and comfortably, and he could already feel the warming and ventilation charms engaging to both warm up his toes and cool down his soles,) but more to just piss off the attendant who was still watching him. 

As a result, he ended up straying rather closer to the lady, who was now being unpinned and talking about things like ‘silk twill’ and ‘panels of voile’. She caught sight of him at this point, and fixed such a sharp gaze upon him Harry caught his breath.

Madam Malkin turned and seeing him standing there, frowned at him. “Can I help you, young man?” And her voice was as cutting as the woman’s gaze was sharp.

Harry noticed the attendant at the counter fluttering to attention.

“No thanks,” he said, feeling both awkward and defiant. “Just trying these shoes.” He raised them with a half kick and then stamped them down again, then proceeded to stamp his way back to the shoe section to pick up his old trainers and the box the new ones had come in.

He made his way back to the counter, this time with almost everyone’s gazes upon him.

“I’ll take them thanks,” he said stridently, feeling fully awake and a lot more focused than he had been. “I’ll wear them out,” he added.

“Five galleons,” the attendant said crisply, her back straight, and Harry thought, her gaze very obviously avoiding both Madam Malkin and the customer on the other side of the room.

Harry thought five galleons was a bit steep for a pair of shoes, but now that he realised he was shopping in possibly the fanciest clothes shop in Diagon, he handed the money over without a quibble. He wondered what it said about Hogwarts, that the uniforms could only be made new here. And then on the heels of that, he wondered how many students arrived at the school in second-hand uniforms.

“You can get rid of these,” he said. Dropping his trainers on top of the box. The attendant's eyes widened, and Harry heard a gasp from the other side of the shop. He turned to see the lady looking down at him, and, feeling reckless he asked loudly.

“I don’t suppose you could give me directions to Muggle London?”

The lady shuddered then passed her hand over her eyes, looking away from him. Madam Malkin’s lips tightened and the assistant snapped the till closed. “No,” she said shortly and stared angrily at Harry with, what Harry thought, was the first honest expression she’d shown him.

“Oh well,” Harry said. His wave of recklessness now subsiding into something that left an ugly taste in his mouth.

He picked up his rucksack, turned around and, his new shoes squeaking slightly, he walked across the shop and out the door.

He didn’t pause on the doorway didn’t wait to catch his bearings, just kept walking on and on down Diagon until finally, he pulled up at the corner of an alleyway, and leant back against the wall.

Well. He thought. There was one answer to the question of life without the Harry Potter name. He was angry, he realised. No, he was spitting mad. How dare they judge him for having ratty, Muggle trainers. His gold was as good as anyone else’s. He had every right to buy overpriced shoes if he wanted to. He glared down at his shoes. His happiness with the purchase was quickly fading and he had half a mind to go back and throw them down on the counter. Tell them thanks ever so, but he wanted his Muggle trainers back actually.

Only, the thought of actually putting Dudley’s horrid cast-offs back on stopped him from completing the action.

Why had Hermione never said anything, he thought? Ron had at least made it clear that Harry's wealth wasn’t exactly normal. Yeah so Ron hadn’t been the most subtle and Harry hadn’t really known what to do with the knowledge, but he’d been able to do _something_. He’d given Fred and George his earnings. 

Hermione had never really talked about being a Muggleborn, Harry realised. Oh, they’d talked about the war, sure. About Voldemort's plans and the Death Eaters and, when things descended into the misery and torture of the last two years, sure, they’d talked about that. But this? Voldemort wasn’t even back. He wasn’t even here and this was still happening.

It was worse because it was Malkin, he thought. He’d always thought of her as a kindly, friendly sort of figure. He’d certainly never seen her with that expression on her face. And all on account of a pair of Muggle trainers. It was so absurd, he felt he ought to laugh. Only he couldn’t find it funny.

Harry sighed and looked around himself. He was on the far end of Diagon Alley from the Leaky and he decided all he wanted to do now was get out of here and set up his tent somewhere quiet. He’d started to turn back when he realised he recognised the name of the shop opposite. ‘Which Witch’. Wasn’t that the shop that Tom had mentioned?

He walked up to it, happy to have a distraction from his thoughts. It looked like a beauty shop, he thought, with lots of moving pictures of witches and wizards with long, glossy hair, and a long counter full of coloured pots of makeup. He hesitated on in the doorway, feeling out of place, but finally, curiosity won out and Harry walked in.

The scent of perfume hit him strongly upon opening the door and he sneezed then pushed his glasses back up his nose before looking around.

His sneeze had rather announced his entrance, but the shoppers all mostly looked away from him when they saw he was just a kid. Score one for being ignored, he thought.

He walked over to the counter and was surprised to see a man standing behind it. Though, thinking of the pictures of long-haired men in the window, and the number of long-haired wizards he knew, he supposed it wasn’t that strange.

“How can I help you?” The man said cheerily, and Harry, distracted by the realisation that the man was wearing coloured eyeshadow, took a moment to remember what he wanted.

“Is there a way out of Diagon Alley here?” he asked. “Only I heard there was,” he added, a little inanely.

“Certainly, I can show you if you like, just give me a minute.” And he stood up and leaned around a doorway behind the counter.

“Just showing a customer the archway, keep an eye on the till,” he called. Harry heard a muffled reply from inside. The man was pretty young, Harry thought, probably not much older than Harry. Real age Harry, at least. He couldn’t have been out of Hogwarts long. 

He was wearing a pair of jeans that seemed like they might be uncomfortably tight and a burgundy shirt that he hadn’t buttoned up very far. He also, Harry noticed, had very shiny hair. 

The man finally finished his conversation with whoever was behind the door and tilted his head for Harry to follow. 

Harry walked behind him out the back and realised the man wasn’t wearing a robe. Harry couldn’t remember if he’d seen it slung over the chair in the shop. It was pretty odd, he thought, to see someone in such obvious Muggle clothing in the middle of Diagon Alley.

Feeling like he might be as bad as that lot in Madam Malkins for staring, Harry averted his eyes. Odd didn’t mean bad, he argued with himself.

The man stopped in the backyard of the shop. It was pretty empty, mostly paved over, with a tiny shed in the corner, though Harry guessed, it could be wizard space and actually massive inside.

On the far side of the yard, however, there was a low stone wall and a tall archway that stretched up and overhead to join them both. It seemed incongruous, especially since the stone wall was so short. Through the archway, Harry could see a little section of scrubby grass and then a wooden fence that Harry guessed divided them from the garden of whichever shop was opposite.

Here you go,” the man said, “Just step right through, no wand needed.”

No wands, Harry thought. And he wondered suddenly which entrance Dean and his Mum had used.

“Thank you,” Harry said to the man, and he noticed suddenly that the eyeshadow made his blue eyes stand out especially bright.

Overcome with a wave of embarrassment for absolutely no reason, Harry quickly stepped under the arch and stumbled forwards into hustle and bustle of Muggle Covent Garden.


	6. Chapter 6

Harry pulled up short on exiting the archway. A good thing too, because he would have crashed right into a cluster of tourists if he hadn’t. The tourists didn’t seem to notice him at all, and Harry realised the archway must have Notice-Me-Not charms spread around it.

He turned around. The archway was still there, but it was bricked in, like at Platform nine and three-quarters, and as he watched the shoppers walk by, he saw their gazes slip over from the tea shop on his left to the boutique on his right, just like with the Leaky. He wondered if Platform nine and three-quarters had a few Notice-Me-Not charms strung up as well. It would explain why no one had noticed parades of school children disappearing every year.

Harry stepped away from the wall and joined the mass of people wandering past the shops. He had only visited Covent Garden once, in the summer before fifth year, when drifting around Privet Drive and trying to listen to the news without his Aunt and Uncle catching him had become so excruciatingly tiresome, that he’d finally set himself to collecting all the loose change between the sofa cushions for a couple of weeks in a row, and then, combined with the meagre amount of Muggle money he’d had changed from Galleons the summer before, he’s taken the train in to Paddington and headed straight for Diagon Alley, only to stop before entering, afraid that he’d end up in trouble if someone recognised him wandering about wizarding London alone. So instead he’d kept walking past the Leaky, and had circled the streets surrounding Charing Cross, getting swept up in the shoppers at the square, and following the ever-flowing mass of Muggles all the way down to the river. It had been a brief but welcome escape.

The crowds in Covent Garden were as busy as he remembered and he found himself side-stepping and squeezing through the gaps between people.

He hadn't actually come inside the building before, only walked around the square and watched the performers on the corners. The shops inside were quite intriguing in their own mugglish ways. They were all very small, with uniform green painted fronts and little signs hanging from them. It felt more wizarding than the little strip near Privet drive with the dingy electrical repair shop that was always closed, the all-night Chinese takeaway, and the newsagents where Dudley would get his cigarettes.

Harry didn’t see anywhere he could buy food, however, and nor did he see shops selling normal clothes like t-shirts and socks. Though there was one shop that had a whole bunch of black lacy lingerie in the window that Harry stared at, then blushed and walked quickly past.

In the end, he decided what he really needed was to get out of the centre. Maybe out of London entirely, to the suburbs or a small town where he could find a big supermarket, like the Tesco Aunt Petunia shopped at, with aisles and aisles of all the food he might need. It even had a clothes section.

In fact, Harry thought about it. It might make sense to go there. He knew it well enough to apparate there and he thought he could probably land on the other side of the car park behind the bottle bank. He wouldn’t be seen, he knew, because he’d hidden from Dudley there at least once.

He didn’t like the thought of going anywhere near Privet Drive, but the chances of running into the Dursleys had to be pretty slim, and anyway, he’d stolen all of Aunt Petunia's money so why would she go shopping.

There was also the fact that the people working there might recognise him and assume Aunt Petunia had just sent him to do the shopping by himself, instead of getting all concerned about a strange child wandering the shop.

Harry walked past the stalls and out into the square. The first thing he had to do though, was test the Trace. There was no point stocking up on food if he couldn’t do any magic. He’d need to re-think his entire plan.

Harry wandered around the corner, and leant against one of the big pillars, looking out over the cafe tables to a man setting up his act in the corner of the square. He was, Harry realised with a smile, about to do some magic.

He had a bird cage next to him, with a white dove fluttering about inside, and Harry thought he recognised the trick. The cage would go under a cloth and then disappear and then the bird would reappear in the man’s hands. Something like that. 

Harry carefully slipped his wand out of its holster, into his palm. 

He didn’t want to do anything too obvious. No point getting Muggles all startled, but mixing magic into someone else's magic show seemed like it had the best chance of being accepted without too much fuss.

He glanced to either side. The tables blocked his way in front but he had a clear shot straight down past the columns, and in the other direction he could escape right out of the square onto the street. So if Auror’s did turn up, he could quite easily mix in with the crowds. 

He wasn’t sure if they’d send a letter or a person. Could you send a letter to someone standing on a street corner? Did letters go to location or abode? Either way, if it was a person, more likely it’d be an official rather than Aurors. They would be expecting a naughty kid, not a criminal after all.

If they were looking for a child though, they’d be more likely to spot him. He looked around again. There were a couple of boys slightly younger than him with black hair standing near the magician in the corner. He might be able to pass as part of their family. Or, he looked to the other side, there was a woman with curly dark hair that Harry thought looked a bit like how his might look if it was grown out. He could try and stick by her side. Maybe even ask her for directions, so that they were already talking if someone came.

Deciding that was his best bet, Harry turned back to the magician. He had whipped out a silky red cloth and was about to throw it over the cage. Harry, thinking fast, pointed his wand at the dove and incanted quickly under his breath in the moments before the cloth went down. Hoping he’d succeeded, Harry slipped the wand back into his sleeve and started to walk towards the woman.

Out of the corner of his eye, he watched as the magician exclaimed over the disappearing cage, reached into his jacket, and then, an expression of extreme surprise falling over his face, pulled out a large black crow.

Harry hid a smile as he reached the woman. “Hello,” he said.

The woman, who had been searching in her purse for something, looked down at him in surprise.

“Can you help me?” Harry asked, stepping slightly to the side and a little closer to her while shooting a quick glance around the square.

“Of course,” she said quickly and Harry thought he saw her eyes widen as she glanced about to see why he was all alone.

Harry realising he may have made a mistake asking for help, still kept going with his plan. “I’m trying to find the underground station, but I’m not sure where it is. I’m meeting someone there.” He looked around as if searching for the station, but actually scanning the square, his ears pricked for the sound of apparition. He looked up and scanned the sky for an owl. Nothing so far, he thought. 

The magician had recovered and was trying to pass the crow off as deliberate, while surreptitiously checking inside his jacket for the missing dove.

The woman knelt down suddenly. And Harry, not anticipating the movement, flinched away violently. He recovered a moment later and tried to turn the movement into a stumble.

“Oops,” he said, with a laugh that grated falsely. “New shoes.”

The woman looked at him with an increasingly concerned light in her eyes. “Are you meeting your parents?” She asked. Harry looked back at her and nodded, trying to look calm. He doubted it succeeded because she didn’t look particularly convinced. Harry feeling like an idiot for flinching, reassured her that yes, he was. They were meeting him there, he’d just forgotten which street to take. 

He tried to remember how long it had been between Dobby’s hovering charm and the letter arriving. At least ten minutes, he thought. Maybe fifteen. Damn, he shouldn’t have rushed straight to her. He thought. He’d been so worried about Aurors popping in front of him and grabbing him, he hadn’t thought it through.

The woman had finally agreed to give him directions, and she was pointing in the direction he ought to take, but Harry was pretty sure she was going to insist on taking him there in person.

Harry, who had no intention of being followed, mainly because he had no intention of getting on a train and no parents to meet, decided he was going to have to run for it, then apparate as soon as he was out of sight and he began scanning the area for a likely apparition point.

The square, he noted was still free of owls, or people wearing robes.

His best bet, he thought, was to aim for the grand looking church, further down the square. He could probably lose the woman in the crowd, and then he thought he could find some hidden corner in the garden he could just see between the railings at the front of the church.

Deciding there was no time like the present. Harry blurted out a thank you, then took off between the shoppers before the woman could get back to her feet.

He ran about halfway down the square, trying to put as many bodies between them as he could. He couldn’t hear anyone shouting, so he was hoping the woman had been too shocked by his sudden flight to do very much.

He slowed down when he saw the odd looks he was getting. People might think he’d stolen something, he thought, and he reached the church at a quick walk, slipping between the doors with a final scan of the square. 

The woman, he saw in relief, was still standing there, now craning her head and looking around as if to try and find him. He ducked behind the door a bit so that it blocked her view. The magician was still practising his tricks, having got over the dove to crow transformation, and no one else was paying him any attention whatsoever.

Harry stepped out of the way as a couple moved towards the church and entered the garden beside him.

He lingered in the doorway. If the Ministry were going to send anything or anyone, it’d probably come here.

He glanced behind him. He could always run back into the garden if he needed to. Though, they’d probably hear him apparate away. He hadn’t yet learned to silence the crackdown to the muffled popping sound, he wasn’t even sure how it was done.

Harry, his grip tight on the straps of his rucksack, stood in the doorway to the church and waited.

Time slipped by slowly. He saw the woman finally give up the search and move on. The Magician cycled through yet another act and the crowd applauded. Tourists snapped pictures of him as they passed, which Harry tried to duck out of, realising that standing in the doorway to a picturesque church meant he was kind of asking for it. 

No owl swooped down from on high to deposit a letter. No pop or crack signified the arrival of Ministry official. The entire square remained empty of any and all magical intervention. 

He was safe, he realised. Nobody was coming. Harry felt glee building up inside of him, making his body feel light, and he bounced up tonto tiptoes for a second, wanting to jump, but not wanting to attract the attention.

There was seriously no one here. No witch, no wizard, and no letter.

Then, with a sudden sinking feeling, he thought about the letter. What if it _didn’t_ come here? What if right now, an owl was dropping a letter onto Uncle Vernon’s head?

Harry stumbled back into the churchyard and walked slowly down the path away from the square. He had to check. That was the only thing for it. He had to go and find out. He had to go back to the Dursleys.

He wasn’t sure what he’d do if they read it. He couldn’t exactly do magic on them and risk getting expelled before even- wait.

They couldn’t threaten him with expulsion when he hadn’t even started at Hogwarts. He’d be in trouble for doing magic in front of muggles, that was definitely true. That might actually be worse he thought, miserably.

He walked over to a bench slipped his rucksack off his back and sat down heavily. He still had to go to Privet Drive. It was the only way to know for sure.

He might not have to enter the house, he thought, tapping his fingers on his knee. If an owl had dropped off a letter, or if a witch or wizard had come to the door, the house would probably be in an uproar. Only, Harry sighed, no it wouldn’t, because Aunt Petunia would be the only one at home. The other two would be at work and school now. 

He’d just have to brave it out, he thought. He’d probably be in even deeper trouble for apparating there, but he wasn’t exactly going to waste time on the train. He’d just have to go ahead and hope for the best and deal with anything that came up.

He recognised this was exactly the kind of foolhardy Gryffindor plan that usually led to trouble, but he didn’t see how else he was getting out of it. 

Harry slung his rucksack onto his back and glanced around. There was a large tree and a second smaller fir growing close to the corner of the church and Harry strolled casually in its direction, circling until the tree blocked him from the yard. Then he stepped carefully back towards the tree, and jumped over the low hedge, ducking down to where the tree met the fir and, focusing on the back garden of Number Four, he felt himself fold down, down, down until with a crack! He landed on the grass next to the shed.

**

After patting his body down for any splinching injuries, Harry straightened up and looked around. Luckily, he’d landed in the back corner of the garden, and even if any other neighbours had been outside, they shouldn’t have been able to see him appear.

Harry thought the fact that he could clearly apparate, despite being ten years old, was another reason to assume his magical core was older than it seemed and he was feeling tentatively hopeful about the whole thing.

Since he’d now done two pieces of magic, he decided there was no real point holding back, and so he raised his wand and, twirling it around himself, cast the Disillusionment Charm.

A few seconds later, a Harry-shaped mirage seemed to flicker its way towards the back door, blurring a little like a heat haze at the edges of his body. The door was locked, but, he’d already done so much magic, he shrugged and whispered a quick, “ _alohomora.”_

The kitchen was quiet and empty. Harry gently eased the door shut behind him, then tiptoed into the hall. He felt extremely strange coming back here. He had been so sure he’d never come back here in his life and yet, here he was, like a bad penny, he thought.

He felt on edge, and a little jittery, though, that could just be the residue from the apparition.

The living room was empty, the television dark and silent and Harry turned to check upstairs only to catch sight of his cupboard and freeze in shock. Someone, Uncle Vernon probably, had fetched some spare fence boards and nailed the entire thing shut.

Harry’s breath caught. A strange, empty feeling rising in his chest. He stepped forward hesitantly and reached out to brush his fingers over the boards. There was something so unsettlingly final about seeing the space nailed tight like that. Harry felt strange. He could hear something, like a faint buzzing in his ears, like static, crawling across his mind.

He heard a noise coming from upstairs.

Harry, his limbs feeling leaden, turned to look up, then began to climb the stairs. The air around him seemed heavy and he couldn’t seem to focus on anything but placing one invisible foot after another.

He kept seeing the cupboard in his mind. The planks nailed shut. And even though it was impossible, even though it clearly wasn’t what had happened. He kept imaging being inside the cupboard as it happened. Imagining Uncle Vernon laying the boards over the doorway, blocking the light out piece by piece. Hammering in the nails. The noise beating around the cupboard and inside Harry’s head in final, heavy booms.

Harry walked forwards, eyes wide and unseeing, then turned, still moving slow and inexorable, towards the open doorway of his Aunt and Uncle’s room.

He Aunt was standing with her back to him, facing her wardrobe. She was pulling her dresses this way and that, the hangers rattling on the bar and muttering under her voice.

Harry’s vision seemed to darken for a moment at the sight of her there. His breath stopped and he realised suddenly that his hand was out, his wand pointing directly at her back.

He could still hear the hammer of the nails in the cupboard, and without meaning to, his mind started to slip between every moment he’d thought about the Dursleys today: Being unable to finish his bowl of soup because his stomach shrunk, just like it did every summer they starved him. His fear of losing his vault and being out on the street, just like they’d always threatened to do. The way he’d flinched from that woman at Covent Garden, The way his chest had aches at the sight of Dean and his mother’s hand on Dean’s shoulder.

His eyes were hot, he realised, hot and dry. His lips peeled back from his teeth. His grip on his wand was like stone. His entire body was rigid.

You did this, he thought. Look what you did. Look what you’ve done.

And on the heels of that.

I’m not alright.

That thought, the realisation that broke across his mind at that moment was so vast and so painful he flinched from it. His rage swelled like a wave and rose up inside him. He wanted her to hurt for the way she’d treated him. He wanted to lash out. Spells crackled behind his teeth, he could taste electricity on his tongue. The desire was so overwhelming he was choked with it. He teetered on the peak of his anger, almost, but not quite falling into the fire.

His hand wavered, tears suddenly forming in his eyes and his rage that had swollen up and consumed him only a moment ago, seemed to rise and crash over his head, then sink down through his bones into the floor, leaving him with the dragging weight of misery in its aftermath.

Harry choked on a sob and Petunia suddenly snapped around to look at the door.

“Who’s there?” She asked. Her sharp eyes scanning the open doorway.

Harry finally dropped his hand, breathing harshly.

What had he been about to do? Would he have cursed her? A muggle. Cursed a muggle while her back was turned?

Petunia took a small step towards the door.

“Is that you?” She said, then her face drew in anger, her lips shifting into a sneer. “Is that you, boy,” she hissed.

Harry shook his head, at her, maybe at himself.

He was shaking. Fine tremors that ran up his arms and across his shoulders. He needed to get out of here, and, not caring how much noise he made, he stumbled to the stairs his hand out to grab the railing, out the kitchen door into the back garden.

He tripped on the patio step and fell onto the grass, the impact knocking the breath out of him, his glasses falling off his nose and somewhere to the side.

Harry lay crumpled on the ground, unmoving.

He didn’t understand what had just happened. He didn’t understand why the sight of the cupboard. (and even thinking of it made him flinch) could have set him off.

The sudden clicking into place of his realisation felt raw still. The edges sharp enough to hurt. What he was doing? What might he have done?

He didn’t, he wouldn’t have done it he told himself. He didn’t do it. He didn’t curse her. He didn’t curse anyone. He was out here wasn’t he. He hadn’t done it.

He rolled over onto his side and pulled up his knees.

He wasn’t going to curse anyone.

He realised his tears had escaped his eyes and were running down his cheeks and dripping onto the ground.

The spectre of Tom Riddle loomed behind his thoughts. Harry shook, shivering despite the warmth of the day.

No. He shook his head, his cheek rubbing against the grass. He wasn’t like him. He hadn’t done it. He wouldn’t have done it. He walked away.

He remembered his fifth year, the haze of anger that would rise up and consume him. He remembered his fear at what was happening to him. He remembered the painful realisation through Dumbledore’s memories, at the uncomfortable symmetry between him and Tom.

Harry shoved himself up onto his knees.  
No. He wasn’t anything like Tom. He wasn’t.

He used the corner of his cloak to scrub the tears from his face and he sniffed loudly. It was different. He was different, he thought. Raising his hands to run through his hair, and pressing his palms down over his ears.

He wasn’t going to listen to this. Wasn’t going to think this. He hadn’t _done_ anything.

He should leave, he thought. He shouldn’t stay here. There was no letter, but even the thought of being free of the trace didn’t bring him any joy. He was wrung out. His emotions felt like they were careening from point to point, extreme to extreme, without any regard for him.

He clambered to his feet and called dully for his glasses with a flick of his wand. Harry blinked as the frames, still invisible, slipped themselves back onto his face.

He turned away from the house, unable to look at it and was about to apparate wildly away, when.

 _“Harry?”_

Harry stared forwards unseeing, his breathing still rough.

“ _Harry, is that you?”_

Harry dropped his eyes to the ground and saw, right in front of him, not far from where he’d fallen, a familiar green snake.

“ _It is you, isn’t it? Why can’t I see you?”_

Harry let his eyes fall shut, lowering his wand. “ _Yes,”_ he said, breathing in and opening his eyes. “ _It’s me._ ” He crouched down and put his hand out that the snake might taste it.

“ _Oh, I thought so._ ” The snake sounded satisfied, and Harry felt it’s tongue flicker against his finger once, then twice. “ _Why can’t I see you?”_

 _“It’s a magic spell,”_ Harry said. _“It makes me invisible.”_

The snake seemed to consider this for a moment, then wriggled up onto Harry’s hand. _“Can you do it to me?”_ It asked.

 _“If you like,”_ Harry said. _“It feels a little uncomfortable though.”_

 _“I want to try it,”_ the snake insisted. So Harry reached out with his wand and very gently tapped the snake on the head, murmuring the incantation as he did so. A second later the snake’s scales shimmered to look the same as the grass beneath them both.

 _“Oh, my,”_ said the snake, and Harry could feel its weight shift in his hands as it turned this way and that to look at itself.

 _“I’m going to stand,”_ Harry said, unfolding from his crouch when the snake made no comment.

Harry half-turned to look at the house. The arrival of the snake had distracted him and stopped him from no doubt splinching himself painfully, but he didn’t want to be here any longer and he told the snake as much.

 _“Where will you go, is this not your den?”_ the snake asked, distracted from its self-study.

 _“No,”_ Harry said, strongly. _“It’s not my den, it’s not my anything.”_ He took a step away from the house, toward the back of the garden. _“I don’t know where I’ll go.”_ He thought for a second. _“To the park, on the corner.”_ He gestured with his chin, then realised, since they were both invisible, that didn’t mean much.

The snake thought this over, then decided it would come as well.

Harry, having no real objection to this as long as they left now, began to walk around the side of the house and down the street. He pulled up his rucksack, which had slipped slightly in his fall, and transferring the snake to his other hand, he brushed out the knees of his tracksuit. His skin under them feeling bruised.

The snake didn’t talk much, and Harry was fine with the silence. The park was empty and Harry walked over to the swings and slung his rucksack to the ground, before climbing onto the swing. He’d forgotten how small he was in comparison to everything else. Once he was sitting his short legs didn’t reach the ground.

He was sick of this. Of all of it. Being small and being angry and sad all the time.

All the good things that had happened today, the purchases he’s made, the people he’d met, all seemed to slide into a grim spiral and fade away. Malkin had been horrible. The train had been horrible, everything that had happened in the last half an hour had been especially horrible.

Harry hated the fragile way he was feeling, like nothing was stable, let alone him. Like he couldn’t be sure of himself.

He kicked his feet to shake the shivery feeling from his spine and the swing, laden with invisible people as it was, seemed to move by itself.

 _“Why are we moving?”_ the snake asked. 

_“It’s a swing,”_ Harry said. _“That’s the point of it, to go back and forth.”_

 _“I don’t like it.”_ the snake said. _“Make it stop.”_

Harry sighed, but complied, not kicking any further and letting the swing gently slow to a stop.

 _“Why did you make yourself invisible?”_ The snake asked.

 _“So… the people in the house… wouldn’t see me,”_ Harry said.

 _“Why didn’t you want them to see you?”_ the snake asked.

The answer to this seemed so utterly impossible to explain to a snake, that Harry didn’t even try. After a little silence, the snake asked _“Are you looking for a new den?”_

Harry sighed, and shifted his grip so that he could run his thumb down the snakes smooth scales.

 _“Sort of. I’m taking my den with me,”_ he said, looking at where he thought his disillusioned rucksack was sitting. 

_“Where are you taking it?”_

_“Very far away.”_

_“Will you come back?”_

Harry shook his head. _“No.”_ He wanted to say more, like never again, or over my dead body, or maybe just to shout no over and over, but he thought if he started, he might never stop.

He was exhausted, he realised. He hadn’t slept other than that hour on the train. It was the afternoon now, and he’s spent the entire day walking from place to place, researching his trip, hiding and lying to people. And then this… his brain shied away from thinking about it.

He just needed to curl up somewhere and sleep.

He jumped down from the swing.

 _“Are you going now?”_ the snake asked, sounding surprised.

_“Yes.”_

Harry turned and walked over the grass verge. _“You know your way back from here?”_ he asked, dropping to his knees and lowering his hand down to the ground.

The snake didn’t answer, and instead, it said, hesitantly, _“Do you suppose… Do you suppose there will be snakes, where you’re going?”_

Harry frowned down at where he could feel the snake on his palm. _“I guess,”_ he said, a little impatient.

 _“But, do you think that… that is, might there be space for a snake in your new den?”_ It asked. 

Harry blinked in surprise. _“Do you… want to come with me?”_ Harry asked, surprised.

 _“I might,”_ the snake said. _“Yes, I think I would.”_

 _“But, why?”_ Harry asked.

 _“It would be different you see,”_ the snake replied. _“Everything is much the same here.”_

Harry sat back onto his heels, _“I’m going to be moving a lot, pretty far distances. You wouldn’t have much time to explore.”_ He thought about flying. _“And you might get cold, snakes don’t like that.”_

 _“No,”_ the snake said. _“We don’t… but, you’re warm. I could just stay in your hands couldn’t I?”_

 _“Well, no,”_ Harry said, _“I’ll need my hands, but I suppose I could put you in my pocket.”_

The snake considered this. _“Yes,”_ it said finally. _“That’s settled then.”_

Harry, who thought that didn’t settle much at all, looked down at the snake silently.

 _“Unless you don’t want me to come?”_ It said suddenly

 _“No,”_ Harry said, after a moment. _“I don’t mind.”_

He was surprised to find that he didn’t, exactly. It just seemed rather an odd decision, to take a grass snake along on a cross-continental trip but he wasn’t averse to it either. And he thought, his mind shying away from what had just happened at the Dursleys, it might be good to have someone to talk to, even if it was a just a snake.

“ _I might not come back though,”_ Harry said. Aware that he hadn’t really thought through what would happen once he reached Romania.

_“I might go and then stay there, or go somewhere you can’t follow me. You’d be left on your own in a strange place.”_

The snake thought about this for a while then asked _“Do they have frogs there?”_

Harry, nonplussed, answered that they probably did.

_“Well that’s all right then. You can help me find a new den before you leave.”_

Harry, who had forgotten its casually demanding nature, wondered if this was a snake thing, a grass snake thing, or a this grass snake thing. And not wanting to keep referring to it as snake, particularly if it was coming with him, told it he’d forgotten its name.

_“Oh, well I suppose it won’t matter now since I’ll be moving my den.”_

_“Is your name the name of your den then? “_ Harry asked, intrigued despite himself.

_“Usually, yes, but I suppose my den is with you now, I’m the one who travels with Harry.”_

Harry weirdly touched by this, nevertheless hesitantly explained that he would prefer to call the snake by a more human sounding name if it didn’t mind. And since it didn’t have any objection to the idea, Harry asked if it had any preference on names. 

_“I don’t know, what kind of human sounding names are there?”_

_“Lots,”_ Harry said. _“They’re different depending on if your male or female,”_ he said, his voice lifting in inquiry.

The snake shifted in Harry’s hands, _“Well I’m female obviously,”_ it said. _“Look how big I am.”_

Harry, who had no idea what size snakes usually were, just nodded, then remembering he was invisible, agreed out loud.

The first name that popped into his mind was Sylvia, and he suggested it to the snake. She thought about it for a little while, then hissed it back to him. The sibilance translated well into Parseltongue and she bobbed her head against Harry’s thumb. _“Yes. I shall be Sylvia who travels with Harry.”_

Harry let out a laugh and decided to accept the compromise.

He stood up, gently scooping Sylvia into his cloak pocket.

 _“That alright?”_ he asked, patting the lump she made softly.

 _“Yes”_ she replied after a moment, her voice a bit muffled. 

Harry walked back over the swing and bent over sweeping his hands back and forth until he found his rucksack. The surface rippled as he picked it up, his charm was starting to wear off.

 _“I’m going to transport us somewhere else with magic,”_ he said. _“It might feel a bit uncomfortable, sorry, but it’s very quick”_

Sylvia let out a muffled noise of assent, and Harry fixed the image of the camp they’d made in the Forest of Dean before his mind’s eye. Gripping his wand and with a surge of magic he felt down to his toes, he contracted down to a point and reappeared on leafy ground.

**

The campsite was very different in the middle of summer to the freezing, snowy clearing he remembered but the process of unpacking the tent and setting the protection charms around it was depressingly familiar. In fact, his exhaustion only served to heighten the familiarity.

Sylvia was curled into a tight knot in his pocket, she hadn’t appreciated the apparition at all, and Harry let her be as the familiar spells passed through his lips.

It took him a little while to set up the tent, the process being slightly different to the last one, but he quickly remembered what the shopkeeper had done and soon he ducked inside, flicking his wand at the entrance to make it shut up tight behind him.

He draped his cloak over a chair and headed directly for the bedroom at the back.

Harry sat heavily on the bed and laid his wand on the pillow beside him, tugging off each of his shoes, then falling back onto the covers.

He stared up at the draped ceiling. He didn’t have pyjamas, he realised. He hadn’t wanted to bring any more of Dudley’s cast-offs than necessary. The spectre of the cupboard loomed at the periphery of his thoughts, but Harry, too tired to face it, simply shucked his trousers and pulled his hoodie over his head. It was summer, he could sleep in a t-shirt. He cast a few half-hearted warming charms about the bed, but in the state he was in, he didn’t think they’d last more than an hour or two. His limits reached, he crawled under the musty covers and sank into a dead sleep.

**

When Harry awoke, the tent was chilly and dark. His head felt stuffed full of cotton wool, and his mouth was achingly dry. He yawned widely and ran his hand over his face. He’d forgotten to take his glasses off, and they’d been crumpled underneath him at some point in the night. The glass lenses were fine, but he noticed one of the arms had snapped.

Harry sighed, and dropped it and the broken arm onto the bedside table to deal with later. He slipped his wand out from under his pillow and cast a flurry of warming charms about the room, then tucked his head back under the duvet to warm up.

He ended up falling back into a light sleep, waking every hour or so to cast more charms until he slept for a final stretch and woke in what he thought was the very early morning. The light from outside made the tent walls look greyish and Harry guessed from his previous early morning trip, that it was around five. 

His eyes felt itchy and his headachey, but he thought it was from oversleep rather than the lack of it. He wondered if he should just stay in bed. There was nowhere he needed to be. No one expecting him. No one who cared. He could just stay here, in the Forest of Dean, forever.

He didn’t let himself think about the plan, or what had happened yesterday. He just stared up at the canvas ceiling, tracing the folds of cloth with his blurry vision. His glasses were broken, he remembered. The thought of getting up, taking his wand, fixing them, and putting them on his face seemed a monumental task.

I could just get up. He thought. Just get up. Nothing more than that. Just move from horizontal to upright. But he didn’t move. It’s a trick, he thought back at himself. I get up and then it’ll be: get dressed, then find something to eat, then go out somewhere and all the other things I’m supposed to be doing. I can’t do that. I can’t do any of it.

He thought of Ron and Hermione, stranded somewhere in the future, waiting for him. Even though he knew time didn’t work that way, the thought still sent a wave of guilt crashing over him. He thought of Teddy, and the realisation he’d had in front of that Metamorphmagus book. Teddy was dead, he thought. He wasn’t alive, therefore he was dead. Harry falling through the cave had killed Teddy.

He closed his eyes, curled up on his side and was about to pull the covers over his head when he heard his name being called.

The caller said his name again, then again. The voice growing faint and after a while, it stopped. Harry, who was about to drift off to sleep, suddenly snapped his eyes open, realising exactly who had been calling him and moving quickly without any real thought, he stumbled free from the bed, striding out of the bedroom, through the main section of the tent and outside.

Sunlight filtered through the trees, but the air was cold, especially since Harry wasn’t wearing anything but a t-shirt and as he looked about him, he realised he should have at least grabbed his glasses.

 

“Sylvia?” He called, trying to call up an image of her in his mind’s eye. _“Sylvia?”_ He called again, this time hearing the hiss that underlied his words.

After an interminable length of time, while Harry shivered and cursed himself for a fool, he finally heard his name called faintly.

 _“Over here,”_ Harry said, not wanting to leave the clearing and get lost as well. He kept calling out her name, and eventually, her voice got closer and closer until it was right in front of him.

 _“I can’t see you,”_ he said since, without his glasses, the entire forest floor was just a uniform blurry brown. _“Just keep coming towards my voice, the wards will let you pass.”_

A moment later, he felt something cold slide over his foot and he jumped in the air. 

_“Careful,”_ she hissed. _“Don’t step on me.”_

 _“You’d better climb into my hands,”_ Harry said, crouching down and holding them out.

 _“Can’t you smell me?”_ She asked, finally climbing into his hands. She was extremely cold and Harry felt terrible.

 _“No, humans have a crap sense of smell.”_ He stood and carried her into the tent. He paused in the front section, glancing at the table, but feeling how cold she was, he decided to just take her with him back to the bedroom, and he laid her down on the mattress before sitting next to her. She wriggled about until most of her body was under the duvet, and poked just her head out.

 _“I’m so sorry,”_ Harry said. _“I completely forgot you wouldn’t be able to find your way back once you exited the wards.”_ I completely forgot about you, would have been more honest but Harry felt bad enough as it was.

 _“I couldn’t smell you,”_ she said. _“Not until I got close and then suddenly you were there.”_

 _“I know, it’s the wards,”_ Harry explained. _“They protect the campsite from sound sight and smell, but it makes finding it again tricky. You have to remember what the place looks like.”_ He realised the full set of wards was probably overkill, but it had been instinctive.

Sylvia seemed to accept this fairly happily, and Harry thought she wasn’t perhaps, as angry as he’d feared. He still felt bad for effectively stranding her in the Forest of Dean only hours after offering to look after her. _“Are you warm enough?”_ He asked after a little while.

 _“Yes,”_ she said, and wriggled a little closer toward him.

_“I am sorry, you know.”_

_“It’s alright,”_ she said. _“You were very tired, I called to tell you I was going out to hunt but I think you were already asleep.”_

Harry thought about how he’d collapsed with his glasses still on. _“Yeah, probably.”_ He looked down at her. _“Did you find many, um, frogs?”_

 _“Yes,”_ she said, and yawned widely showing the pink of her mouth. _“A big one. I won’t need to eat for many days now.”_

Harry was surprised. _“Really? You don’t have to eat every day?”_

_“Of course not. Why, do you?”_

_“Well, yes,”_ Harry said, which reminded him that he hadn’t got round to buying food. _“More than once a day actually.”_

Sylvia considered this. _“You are very big I suppose.”_ Then after a moment she added. _“I can show you where I found the frog.”_

_“Ah. That’s very kind of you, but humans don’t really eat frogs.”_

Harry reached over and picked up his glasses, carefully fitting the broken arm back and repairing it with a charm. This done, he pushed the glasses onto his nose and looked around himself.

What he really wanted, he thought, was a cup of tea, but since he couldn’t have that, he decided a shower was the next best thing. He was starting to smell pretty ripe. Sylvia seemed content, so Harry left her and wandered through to the bathroom.

The set up was as strange as he remembered, with three freestanding tiled walls to make up the room, and then the canvas draped over the ceiling as with everywhere else. There was a toilet to the left, a sink facing him in about the middle with mirrored cabinet above it, and the shower cubicle on the right. Next to this, on the right wall was a cupboard which contained the hot water tank. Harry remembered seeing linens in there when the shopkeeper had shown it to him, and checking them now, he saw they looked and smelt less musty than the ones on the bed, Harry guessed the cupboard must have some variation of preserving charms on it. 

Harry checked the dial on the side that showed how full the tank was. Since it was fairly low, he cast _aguamenti_ and then, aiming carefully and placing his wand closer to the opening on the tank, he increased the flow until water was coming out of his wand in such a torrent, his wand began to vibrate.

It was weird to be filling up a tiny tank with such a vast amount of water but the shopkeeper had explained briefly the wizard space interior that allowed it to act more as a reservoir than a tank. Even with the charm pushed up as strong as Harry could go, it still took a few minutes for the dial to start to move towards full. He gradually decreased the flow, finally twisting it the charm off entirely and replacing the cap on the tank. 

The opening smoothed down into the surface of the tank and once it was entirely flat, Harry turned on the water heater as the shopkeeper had shown him. The pipes began to clunk and creak as the heating charms engaged.

He took out a hand towel and hung it on the hook next to the sink. He had to reach onto his toes to open the mirrored cupboard, which only reflected about half of his head. Harry thought he'd better buy a stool. The kitchen cupboards would be a pain as well. The cabinet was empty and Harry sighed, realising he’d forgotten to buy soap or toothpaste. He thought he should probably write a shopping list at some point.

Harry pulled the shower door open and turned it on. The water came out in fits and starts at first, then steadied and very quickly heated up. Harry could hear the tank rumbling away in the cupboard as he stripped and stepped under the spray. His shower didn’t take very long, on account of not having any soap, just long enough for him to wake up and warm up fully. He stepped out, dripping, and watched as the vent in the wall spun and whirred, and the wind charms gracefully lifted the water droplets in the air up and out of the tent. 

Harry took a towel from the cupboard to wrap around his skinny waist, grabbing a second-hand towel, he wandered out of the bathroom, drying his hair. 

It was still pretty early in the morning, he thought. He didn’t particularly want to think about all the things he needed to do, the heaviness from earlier not entirely gone, but he remembered that he was supposed to collect his broom today, and the thought of having a broom soon was immensely cheering.

He walked over to where he’d left his rucksack and pulled his purchases out onto the table unshrinking the ones that needed it.

Turned out there _was_ a bookshelf in the tent, though it was empty, so Harry sent his new purchases over there, along with the compass and writing materials except for one quill and ink pot, and a piece of paper ripped from the back of the exercise book. On this, he wrote himself a quick shopping list of soap and other sundries.

The second pannier he left on the table, and the clothes he piled up in his arms and took into the bedroom. With one set laid out for him to wear, the few clothes that went into the cupboard looked pretty sparse, and Harry thought he might buy a few muggle things after all, like t-shirts and maybe a hoodie that actually fit him.

He dressed and took his towels back to drape over chair backs in the main room.

Then, still moving more on autopilot than with any particular goal, he worked his way around the tent, peering into the cupboards and opening all the drawers. 

He was happy to see the tent already had cutlery, crockery, pots and pans. He even found some foil tucked into a drawer, which wasn’t something he thought witches and wizards used. In the bedroom, he found some extra blankets and pillows, probably for the extended version of the bed. Thinking of the clean linens in the cupboard and the horrible musty smell of the current set, he managed to motivate himself enough to strip the sheets from the bed, temporarily displacing Sylvia, but offering her a place in the linen cupboard instead.

Magic made making the bed extremely quick and with new sheets and all the ventilation flaps opened, the bedroom looked a lot brighter and more welcoming. Harry felt that this had been a great achievement on his part, and riding that wave, he moved around the tent, opening all the other ventilation flaps as well. With the sun fully up by this point, the interior became surprisingly airy and light.

In the living section, bedside the bookshelf with his new purchases was a chest that contained some woven mats that Harry thought might be for sitting on the grass and that sort of thing, and some more woollen blankets.

He’d left his toys and the alarm clock on the table and Harry went over to them now and carried them carefully over the bookshelf. It seemed foolish to hold on to toys now that he was technically an adult, but he couldn’t deny that liked the look of his own things on the shelf.

The clock he checked against a quick _tempus_ and found it was still accurate. The time was just past eight. Harry looked back over at his list and went to sit at the table. He still needed to buy food, he thought. At the very least, breakfast.

But the thought of leaving the tent, going outside and then rattling around a supermarket was all a bit too daunting.

He could finish some of the reading he’d done in the shop, he thought. He still needed to check about apparating over borders.

Harry walked back over to his bookshelf and pulled out the _Great Works_ , carrying it back to the table and dropping it down with a thunk.

It didn’t take him long to find his place and he settled down to read. The chapter was long, as he remembered, and he was reading for a while before he found anything useful. Finally, in a section towards the end of the chapter, the author had included a number of illustrations, the pertinent ones showing the shape of the wards themselves. Instead of a thick, even line around the border, (like the minor version of the spell) this version was like a string of circles lines up next to each other, with a thin line connecting them in the places where they didn’t overlap. Each circle was where the ward swelled around the _lapis locii_ and then the lines were where it stretched out thinly between them.

Each _lapis locii_ , he read, extended the wards in a circle of approximately fifty miles in diameter. Each thread between them narrowed down to little more than ten miles. Well, Harry thought, he’d just done about a hundred getting here. It was a long jump, but he knew he could do it at least once.

It wasn’t, he thought, a very good system for keeping people out, but then that wasn’t its purpose. The ward was less about stopping normal travellers, it was about protecting the country from threats. If Harry had any ill-wishes towards the country or its inhabitants, the wards would rise up and all sorts of other wards would engage too.

As long as he avoided the _lapis locii_ and took special care to note when he was getting close to the border, he’d be able to jump across. The only tricky part was making sure he didn’t stray too close to the border at any point. 

The hardest points, he thought, would be the first crossing, from England to France, since he’d have to either clear both the British and French border at the same time or jump into the middle of the Channel and then jump again, without drowning or falling off his broom. He’d never tried apparating mid-flight, and he didn’t particularly want to try, he was pretty sure it’d end in splinching. 

The other issue, Harry thought, was right at the end. 

Harry walked over to the bookshelf and carried the Atlas back to the table, turning to the Europe page again. He looked down at the map grimly. Yeah, he was right. The Nature Reserve was right on the border with Ukraine, and he wanted to reach the cave, which would certainly all be covered by the Romanian coastal _lapis locii_. 

There was no way around it. Harry thought miserably. He’d certainly be noticed by that point. He’d have to just jump in there, try and find the cave really, really quickly. Which, he thought, would be impossible.

He stared at the page. Racking his brains to think of an alternative. 

What if he went in the muggle way? These wards only tracked _magical_ movement. They wouldn’t track a person walking in, and they weren’t set up to pick out wizards and witches from muggles. They relied on the... Harry flicked back through the pages, what had the book called it, magical vibration? Magical resonance? No, ‘Magical Dissonance’, Harry saw, running his eyes over the page. When the ward and the spell that allowed magical entry, like the portkey spell or apparition, or the complex charms that allowed brooms to fly, when they came into contact, they clashed with each other, that was how the alarm went off. 

Walking into a ward that was only listening for _magical_ movement wouldn’t trigger it. 

He supposed they could have other wards stretched along the border, ones that relied on the Great Work to provide the framework, ones that might be activated if he entered their range. But as long as he came at the reserve from _within_ the country, why would they react? Border wards were about stopping a threat from without, not within. Plus the place was a tourist spot for witches and wizards, after all, they couldn’t stop people from walking around.

It was going to be a really long walk, Harry thought, getting depressed again. It’d throw his calculations off entirely. It would take _days,_ maybe even weeks. He had small legs and how long could a ten-year-old even walk for? 

Harry pulled the Atlas over to him and this time flipped through until he reached the page on Romania and used the zooming spell on the eastern coast. The land pinched in before the reserve, so he’d have to stop flying shortly after crossing the Danube. He could take muggle transport about half of the way, but after that, he’d be trekking through the reserve itself, he didn’t even know if there were roads. It was closed to Muggles after all, and witches and wizards didn’t need them.

Then on top of that, he thought, he’d have to cover the entire coastline. Which was easily the same distance again. He looked at the scale in corner of the map, which had shifted to allow for Harry’s magnification and calculated the distances. Something like two hundred miles, he thought, all added up together. It would take him weeks.

Harry leant away from the Atlas, then, restless, he stepped away from the table and began to pace.

Was he crazy to do this? Should he give up? But the thought of it, even just briefly, made his stomach clench. He couldn’t just abandon the future, his future. He had to find a way to get back to it, didn’t he?

Should he stop trying to do it alone? He wondered. Should he reach out to someone? Ask for help? Should he, at the very least, look into obtaining a travel pass for the Romanian border.

Harry sighed, and swept his hand through his hair, gripping the ends tightly. He didn’t know what he should do. He needed advice. He needed his friends to bounce ideas off, he needed…

He needed to not be alone, he sighed. Which was why he was doing this in the first place.

Harry turned to stare at the books. He hadn’t even thought about what he’d do when he found the cave, he realised.

He couldn’t exactly just cut himself and try to activate the damn thing a second time. There was no knowing what might happen.

He was thinking of this like something he could just solve with a spell, he realised. Like he could just stroll into the cave here, then stroll out in his right time and in the right body. It wasn’t that simple. He had no idea what he was going to do.

He ran his hands through his hair, clutching the ends. He had no idea how to reverse this, no idea how to fix this. He wanted to scream.

He needed to get out of this tent, he decided finally. He needed a break.

Harry strode over to where his list was lying on the table and snatched it up. He grabbed the empty rucksack next to it and went to the bedroom to collect his Muggle money. The supermarket suddenly didn’t seem so bad in comparison to staying here with his thoughts going round and round in circles.

Harry pulled open the linen cupboard door and looked down at Sylvia. She was curled up on top of the pile of towels. _“I’m going shopping,”_ Harry said.

Sylvia raised her head and tasted the air. _“shopping?”_

 _“To get food,”_ Harry clarified, feeling antsy _“I’ll probably be a few hours.”_ He decided he’d pick up his broom on his way back. It’d be good to fly, get him out of his head for a bit.

Sylvia, uninterested in food now that she was full, lowered her head.

_“You won’t go out, will you? You’ll get lost if you don’t know your way back.”_

_“I know it now,”_ Sylvia said.

Harry, not entirely sure he believed her, guessed she wouldn’t be moving for a while anyway, not now she had somewhere warm, so he nodded. _“I’ll leave some water on the floor for you,”_ he said, and he filled a bowl from the sink, laying down near the cupboard, which he left open. _“Right. I’m off. See you later.”_

She murmured a goodbye, clearly already falling back asleep, and Harry rolled his eyes. He nipped back into the bedroom for his galleons, in case he needed them in Diagon, then he focused and with a crack landed behind the bottle bank at Tesco.

He got an odd look from a man dropping bottles into the bins when he crawled out from behind them and Harry, not expecting anyone to be there, just stared at him with wide eyes

“Little vandal,” the man said, frowning at him. Harry who realised he thought he had smashed something, just shrugged sheepishly and quickly walked away.

He grabbed a basket from the entrance and walked down the aisles, a little overwhelmed by the sheer possibility of buying anything he wanted. After all the shopping he’d done yesterday, however, he wasn’t keen on staying long and the thought of Privet Drive being only a few streets away was enough to make him walk faster. He got tea, milk and sugar, and a loaf of bread and a slab of butter. Thinking about what he liked in the mornings at Hogwarts, he found eggs and sausages. 

The last time they camped they’d been starving a lot of the time, and Harry had no desire to repeat that, but then, he wasn’t on the run anymore, so he tried not to go too crazy. He found some canned soups and baked beans, then a bag of pasta and some cheese. And he picked up the vegetables he knew he could cut and fry or cut and boil since the Dursley school of cooking didn’t really extend much beyond that.

He also got as many of the chocolates and crisps he could remember Dudley eating and that he’d never been allowed to try. And then, feeling unhealthy before he’d even eaten them, and with Hermione, the daughter-of-dentists frowning at him in his mind, he picked up some fruit as well. His basket was getting heavy now, and, glancing around, he cast a quick Feather-light on the basket.

More comfortable without the weight, he added the extra things from his morning list. He almost picked up adult underwear, before he remembered how tiny he was and piled kid’s underwear and socks and a couple of t-shirts plus a pyjama set into the basket. He was getting a bit worried about running out of Muggle money by this point, so he carried his basket over to the till and had to go on tiptoes to load everything onto the conveyor.

The shop assistant at the till was as uninterested in Harry’s plight as he hoped he would be, and he called out the total in a bored voice. Harry, who had to pause from packing everything into his rucksack and trying to make it seem like he was simply packing very efficiently, not packing everything into a magically extending bag, handed over his money and was glad to get find it didn’t cost as much as he’d thought and that he still had about forty pounds left over.

Once done, Harry lifted his rucksack onto his shoulders and headed back out towards the bottle bank.

The trip having gone much smoother than Harry expected, he was about to casually apparate to Diagon, when he realised the sight of a child apparating without a licence into the middle of wizarding London would cause a terrible uproar, instead apparated to the tent.

He unloaded all his items into the various cupboards and closets, then, making a point of not looking at the books on the table, decided that since he was here, he may as well have breakfast.

He’d just finished his fry up when Sylvia suddenly came out of the bathroom.

 _“You’re back already?”_ she asked. _“I thought you would be a gone a long time.”_

 _“I’m going again soon,”_ Harry said. _“I had to break my trip and I thought I’d eat.”_

He turned off the heat and took the toast out from under the grill before it burnt. Buttering it, he carried the lot over to the other side of the table from the books.

Sylvia explored the tent as he ate, occasionally asking him to identify a piece of furniture. She wound her way up the bookshelf, and investigated Harry’s toys and the clock, before sliding back down and joining Harry at the table.

She couldn’t quite manage to go directly up a table leg, though she gave it a go and Harry finally reached down to give her a lift up.

He’d managed to finish most of his breakfast, and after tasting the air, she deigned to try some of the sausages. They were pronounced to be good, but not as good as frog.

Harry laughed. _“I think we’re going to have to agree to disagree,”_ he said, carrying his plate back to the kitchen and covering his leftovers before putting them in the cold cupboard.

_“How do you know? You’ve never tried frog.”_

Harry had to admit, she had a point.

 _“Will you be going now?”_ she asked.

Harry nodded, returning to the table. _“Yeah.”_ He looked around. _“May as well.”_

His gaze fell upon the books. 

_“What are these?”_ Sylvia asked, sliding up to them, and Harry sat back at the table with a sigh.

_“They’re books. Books about the place I need to get to.”_

_“Do they show you how to get there?”_ she asked, sliding on top and looking down at the text.

 _“Unfortunately, no,”_ Harry said _“I’ve hit a bit of a dead end, you see.”_

_“Oh?”_

_“Yeah.”_ Harry rested his chin in his hands _“I can get almost all the way to the end, but the final bit...”_ He sighed. _“I can’t find a way to do it. And if I can’t get to the final bit, then there’s no point even starting.”_

 _“You can’t use your magic?”_ Sylvia asked curiously.

 _“No,”_ Harry replied. _“I can’t.”_

_“What will you do?”_

_“I don’t know.”_ Harry ran his fingers through his hair. _“I’m sort of, trying not to think about it.”_

_“Why not?”_

_“Because I don’t know what to do!”_ Harry exploded. _“I don’t know how to get there, I don’t know how to get back. I know I should. I should find a way because that's what they’d do, but I don’t know how to do it!_

He realised he was shouting, but the words kept welling up from inside him like they’d been waiting there the whole time he’d been shopping and eating breakfast. 

_“I know I need help,”_ he said, feeling desperate, _“but I don’t know who to ask. I can’t just go up to any of the people I know because they don’t know me! I’m stuck here and I’m all alone and I hate it!”_ He finished on a shout, pushing away from the table so hard the chair clattered behind him.

He spun away, clutching himself around the middle. He hated this, he hated it. He didn’t want it. He didn’t want to be here. He wished he’d never entered the cave. Wished he’d never even gone to Romania. Why did things like this always happen to him? How was it fair? Why couldn’t he catch a break?

After a moment, he heard Sylvia say.

_“You’re not alone though.”_

_“You’re just a snake.”_

_“What does that have to do with it?”_ She sounded affronted.

Harry turned and walked over to her, slamming his palms on the table. _“Can you get me a pass over the Romanian border?”_ He snapped.

There was a short silence, then Sylvia said primly, _“Well I’m sure I could. If I knew how.”_

Harry closed his eyes, then started to laugh.

 _“This is ridiculous,”_ he said once he’d got himself back under control.

 _“This is, or you are?”_ Sylvia asked, still sounding miffed.

Harry sat down at the table.

 _“I have to get help,”_ he said. _“I have to tell someone.”_

_“Tell someone what?”_

Harry looked at her. _“I’m from the future,”_ he said seriously.

_“From the what?”_

_“The future. I was caught up in a magic spell that sent me back seven years into the past.”_

_“How can you be in the past? You’re here now.”_

_“This is the past”_

_“No, now is the present.”_

Harry stared at her. _“I think, maybe, this is one of those things where you have to be a human to, um, get it.”_

Sylvia just stared at him.

 _“Look,”_ Harry said, feeling bad, and regretting his earlier outburst as well. _“Imagine if you, the you that exists right now suddenly went back in time to the version of you that first met me. You’d remember all this, meeting me and coming here, but none of it would have happened yet.”_

Sylvia’s head bobbed. _“But it did happen,”_ she said. “Because it’s in the past.”

Harry sighed. He was, he thought, trying to explain time travel to a garden snake. 

_“I think you should sleep,”_ Sylvia said finally. _“I always sleep after eating. It makes me feel much better.”_ She slid closer to him and brushed the side of her head against his finger in a way that Harry thought was meant to be reassuring.

_“Yeah. Thanks, Sylvia, I’ll, uh, think about it.”_

_“You can put me on the ground now,”_ she said, clearly willing to overlook the entire episode as a sleep-deprived, human thing. Harry obliged, and watched as she slid off towards the cupboard

What _was_ he going to do? He thought.

He really should tell someone. Only he couldn’t think who. All the previous reasons still applied. His friends were still children. Of the adults he trusted, they would all eventually go to Dumbledore.

If he told Dumbledore he was from the future, Dumbledore would want him to tell him everything. That wasn’t, in and of itself, a bad thing. The question was, would Dumbledore help him get to Romania or not? What would happen to the younger him if he left? Hell, what happened to him already? Was he still inside Harry? Was Harry possessing himself? Or had he been overwritten? Had Harry killed him? He thought, with a painful shock.

Would Dumbledore see him as Harry or as, well, the man who murdered Harry

Harry felt sick.

He wanted to trust that Dumbledore would help him, but without more knowledge of the spell and what had happened to bring him here, how could he be sure? Dumbledore’s priority had always been to get rid of Voldemort and to a lesser extent, to let Harry have a real childhood. Well, Harry being here now clearly meant childhood was over. What if Harry found a way to go home, and the Horcrux went with him. Dumbledore couldn’t risk that, hell Harry couldn’t risk that.

Harry groaned and dropped his head onto the table.

There were just too many possibilities. Too many questions and not enough answers.

If he could at least get to the cave he thought. He could write down the markings. He could take a sample of the sand. He could look to see if his blood was still somehow still there on the wall. 

He had to, he _had_ to get to Romania. 

He just couldn’t tell anyone. Not yet. Not until he knew more.

Harry banged his head against the table.

What it came down to was Harry making decisions, or someone making them for him, he realised with a flash of clarity. That was what this was all really about. If he went to Dumbledore, the decisions were out of his hands. Dumbledore might, _might_ ask him what he thought, but he’d decide he knew best. It wasn’t even about Harry looking like a ten-year-old. Even if Harry was his actual age, Dumbledore would still make decisions for him. Look at what happened in the war, the teaching and the Horcruxes, Snape’s memories, everything that led up to the moment in the FOrest.

Harry banged his forehead against the table again. 

No. Stop. Think of something else.  
He stared at the wooden surface so close to his face it was blurry.

Either he kept trying to figure things out, or he gave all his plans over to someone else. Those were his only two options.

Harry couldn’t do it. He couldn’t just give up control like that. Not after everything he’d done. All that he suffered. This was his life, damn it, he thought angrily. He had a right to decide what he did next. He could make his own choices.

Harry finally sat up and resettled his glasses.

The plan was still on. Romania was still happening. He decided. Either he’d get a pass, or he would comb every damn inch of that beach on foot.


	7. Chapter 7

Harry apparated into the churchyard under a Disillusionment Charm. He quickly scrambled out from under the tree, dodged a couple of people who were staring about in confusion, trying to trace where the noise had come from and walked over to the side of the church.

_“That was horrible,”_ Sylvia said from his pocket. 

_“Sorry,”_ Harry whispered. _“I did warn you.”_

He heard the snake version of a huff.

It had been her decision to accompany him on his trip to collect his broom and Harry, still feeling bad for shouting at her, had agreed, provided she promised not to distract him. He didn’t want to be outed as a Parselmouth so soon, or ever really.

Harry glanced about. The Muggles were now poking near the tree, and since they had their backs turned and no one else was looking, he ducked around the corner of the church and cancelled the Disillusionment, then walked quickly back around, hoping it would look like he’d merely rounded the corner, rather than appeared from thin air.

He passed the Muggles muttering loudly about broken branches and continued out of the church.

Covent Garden looked much the same as yesterday, though the magician wasn’t there. Harry didn’t spare much attention on the Muggle side, wanting to get into Diagon Alley directly. 

He was riding the wave of determination his recent resolution had given him, though he didn’t actually have a plan in place. He suspected he’d have to visit the Ministry at some point. Considering the mess his last mission to break into the Ministry had ended in, he wasn’t particularly keen.

He needed to get his broom back first anyway.

Harry ducked between shoppers and slipped into the shade of the shopping centre, eye on the shop signs until he saw the tea shop he recognised. Squaring his shoulders, he stepped quickly up to the archway until he felt himself covered by the wards, the Muggles around him walking obliviously past, and Harry slipped casually through the wall and came out in Which Witch’s backyard.

The yard was empty, but when Harry entered the building he saw the shop was busy. He didn’t recognise the person watching the till, a young woman who looked up from the magazine she was reading to give him a brief smile. Harry nodded but didn’t linger. He wondered if they had to stay open all the time. He didn’t know if the Leaky did, but it made more sense for an Inn, not so much for a normal shop. He’d have to remember to ask on his way out.

Diagon Alley was busy as well, but still full fo far more adults than children. He felt like he’d been in the past for weeks, but of course, it had only been a few days. Hogwarts was still in session, and it was still a weekday. Harry shook his head. 

He walked directly down the street to Quality Quidditch, passing by Malkins with a frown.

The broomstick shop was busy, but the shopkeeper was at the counter marking things off in a large ledger, and he smiled when he caught sight of Harry. “Ah, Mr James. I’ll just get your broom,” he said, placing the quill between the pages of his book and disappearing into the back of the shop. 

Harry, who had forgotten about his fake name, was glad to have a moment to recover. He looked around himself. The gleaming brooms were distracting, and he found himself gravitating toward the Nimbus display despite himself.

The shopkeeper came back a few minutes later and Harry dragged himself away.

“Here you go lad, good as new.”

Harry took the broom from him, he was surprised to see the shopkeeper was right. The scratch had almost entirely disappeared after being filled and varnished, and the bristles looked healthy and straight.

“Thanks,” he said, grinning. “I didn’t realise you’d sort those out as well.” He said indicating the bristles. “The shaft looks great. Really good, can’t even see the scratch,” he added.

The shopkeeper swelled with pride. “All part of the service, lad. Got your ticket?” he added, moving back to the desk.

Harry pulled it out, and the shopkeeper scrawled something over both his and Harry’s copy, before handing it back to him. “Paid in advance,” he said, “so that’s that then. Enjoy responsibly,” he admonished, but with a cheery smile.

Harry, still paying most his attention to the broom, nodded and headed towards the door. He felt a lot better with a shiny, flight worthy broom in his hands, he realised.

Harry paused on the street outside the broom shop. What he really wanted to do, he thought, was just go flying. He could go directly back to the Forest of Dean and fly under a charm. He itched to do just that.

Sylvia shifted in his pocket. And he felt her rise up until her head stuck out.

_“Is this where you do your… shopping… then?”_ she asked.

Harry just caught her eye and nodded, not wanting to speak.

_“It’s very… busy. Lots of smells.”_ She looked this way and that. _“What’s over there?”_

Harry looked down the street. _“Magical Menagerie,”_ he said, raising his hand to shield his mouth, and walking away from the entrance to the broom shop.

_“It smells of many things,”_ she said.

_“Well, it’s a pet shop. Even humans find it smelly.”_

_“I want to see.”_

He walked slowly past the bird cages, missing Hedwig with a sudden burst of longing. He’d forgotten, he thought. She’d be here, at Eyelops. He could get her right now and he almost turned and walked straight out, except that Sylvia was twisting around in his pocket to try and see and making sounds of curiosity. Harry promised the absent Hedwig that he’d be there soon, and turned his focus to the snake.

Clever use of wizard space had been used to extend the shelves that the cages, so it felt less cramped. It still smelt strongly of animals, but mostly of the various stuff used for bedding, like wood shavings where all the rates and small mammals lived, and watery moss where the aquatic pets were splashing about.

The aviary in the corner was a ruffling mass of feathers and the entire shop was strong with platforms and poles wrapped in twine for the cats to walk along and scratch their claws on.

Harry walked slowly through the shop. He’d never wanted another pet, not after Hedwig, and while the animals in here were impressive, he still didn’t feel drawn to any of them.

_“Where are the snakes?”_ Sylvia asked after Harry had, his head turned away from the counter at the back, quietly explained the purpose of the shop.

_“I don’t know.”_ Harry said, looking around. He wandered past the aquatic section, picking up his pace when he realised Sylvia was starting to get a bit _too_ interested in the toads.

As he’d hoped, the amphibians gave way to reptiles and after a set of impressive yellow bearded dragons, Harry saw a small selection of glass-fronted snake cages. He shuffled closer, stealing a glance at the shopkeeper from the corner of his eye. Since there weren’t many people in the shop, the shopkeeper was, unfortunately, paying him more attention than Harry wanted and he turned his back slightly.

He watched the snakes behind the glass. They were mostly curled up sleeping. Only one, the biggest, with a body as thick as Harry’s head, turned to look at them with lazy eyes.

_“They don’t have very good camouflage.”_ Sylvia pronounced. 

Harry saw the big snake turn its head, trying to see where the voice had come from.  
She was right, the snakes here were exotic looking animals in bright banded reds and blacks, or a popping, electric blue from one snake in the corner, that faded well into the bright turquoise leaves of its enclosure, but wouldn’t have done so well in, say, the back garden where Harry had found Sylvia. He looked down at her green head.

He didn’t really want to give himself away by saying anything though, so he remained quiet.

_“They have nice dens I suppose.”_ Sylvia said after a moment, _“but ours is better.”_

Harry, glancing at the cages, was inclined to agree.

_“Who’s that?” _The large snake suddenly snapped. _“Who’s talking?”___

__Harry, judging this to be a good moment to leave, send a quick smile to the shopkeeper and turned back to the doors._ _

___“I don’t suppose we could take some of the frogs with us?”_ _ _

___“I thought you didn’t need to eat,”_ Harry hissed quietly._ _

___“Well, no,”_ Sylvia admitted. _“But I will need to later.”__ _

__Harry didn’t particularly like the idea of keeping live frogs just for Sylvia to eat, and he shook his head, exiting the shop._ _

__Sylvia huffed a bit at this but settled down without saying anything else._ _

__Harry made his way to Eyelops and entered the welcome, feathery darkness of the shop. The owls were mostly sleeping or hooting softly, and Harry felt the same hushed awe as last time. He scanned the feathered bodies, searching for the flash of white that he knew must be there._ _

__On he walked past long rows of perches until almost at the back of the shop he saw her. Her white feathers seeming to glow in the half-light. Harry walked straight up to her, joy filling him up. “Hello there,” he whispered when he was close._ _

__Hedwig turned to look at him with inquisitive dark eyes._ _

__“You don’t remember me, do you?” he asked softly._ _

__She tilted her head. He raised his hand slowly and very gently stroked her feathers. After a moment, she let her eyes fall shut._ _

__Harry who wanted to do something ridiculous like hug her and start crying, forced himself to get a grip, and finally pulled his hand away._ _

__“Do you want to come with me, girl?” He asked her, and Hedwig tilted her head again, then leaned forward and gently nibbled his finger._ _

__Harry put out his arm, and Hedwig hopped up, the cushioning charms woven around her feet softening the pressure of her claws to a gentle squeeze._ _

__Harry, a smile breaking over his face, very carefully walked her back to the counter._ _

__“I’ll take this one please,” he said._ _

__The shopkeeper, perhaps reacting to his wide smile, laughed softly._ _

__Harry grinned up at Hedwig and was about to pay when an affronted voice spoke up from his pocket._ _

___“Are you mad? You’re not bringing that beast to our den.”_ _ _

__Harry stopped short. Hedwig’s head rotated so that her black eyes were fixed on Harry’s pocket._ _

__Shit. Harry thought._ _

__He carefully raised Hedwig higher and tried to turn so his body shielded her view of his pocket_ _

__“Um, quick question,” he asked the shopkeeper. “How do you stop one pet from attacking another?” He thought of Crookshanks and Scabbers. “Like say, an owl and a… toad.”_ _

__The shopkeeper looked down at him. “Oh, one familiar won’t go for another, no fear.” She laughed. “here would we be then!”_ _

__Harry laughed uneasily._ _

__“But what about a muggle pet? Or, um, say you rescued a wild animal, like a…” he cast about for an example… “a mouse? Would an owl go for that?”_ _

__The shopkeeper looked down at him. “Well, not all familiars are magical of course,” she said. “There’s not much difference between a wild owl and a trained one.” She gestured at Hedwig. “Other than the charms and that sort of thing, but up here.” She tapped his temple, “They’re smart as anything, owls.”_ _

__“So, you could just… tell an owl not to eat the sn- mouse?” Harry asked, glancing at Hedwig._ _

__“Yeah, could do, could do. But see, more likely they’d recognise your magic on them both,” the woman said, then seeing Harry’s confusion, she explained. “Being your familiars that is.”_ _

__Harry, who was sure he was missing something now, asked hesitantly. “But what makes a pet a familiar? Aren’t they the same thing?”_ _

__“Lord no.” The woman laughed. “A familiar is much more than just a pet, young man. It’s a companion, a true friend.” She smiled. “A real connection there is, between wizard and familiar.”_ _

__Harry looked at Hedwig. “Yeah,” he said softly. “I know what you mean.”_ _

__He glanced down at his pocket where Sylvia was wrapped into a small, silent ball. He didn’t know what to do. He knew he couldn’t leave here without Hedwig. It'd be like leaving a piece of his heart behind. He looked at his owl._ _

__“A familiar would know then,” he said meaningfully, “if you had another pet that she wasn’t to harm, she’d know how important that was.”_ _

__The shopkeeper said it might be the case but Harry wasn’t talking to her. He caught Hedwig’s eyes, and after a second she bobbed her head._ _

__Harry nodded back. “Right then.” He turned to the shopkeeper. “That’s settled.” He felt Sylvia shiver in his pocket, and he knew he was going to have some explaining to do. He had a sudden flash of inspiration and he asked the shopkeeper if there were any spells or charms that you could use to protect a pet._ _

__“Oh certainly, amulets that go on a collar or tag.” She nodded at Hedwig’s foot. “Those are most common.”_ _

__Harry shook his head, thinking an amulet would just slide right off a snake._ _

__“There’s lots of spells that can be cast, charms and the like, but I always recommend potions over charms.”_ _

__“Potions?” Harry asked, surprised._ _

__“Oh yes, slip them into their water or their food, potions to cover all sorts of things, make their hide or fur stronger, claws sharper, better eyesight, improve their hunting skills, hiding skills, the list is endless really. And they last longer than charms, can last for years some of the more complicated ones.”_ _

__“Do you sell them?”_ _

__“Depends what you need, we’re all owl-based here,” She gestured towards the shelf behind the counter, and Harry realised there were was a shelf of potions racks, with tiny glass vials stacked up within them._ _

__“Slug and Jiggers has a better range and they contract with the Potions Guild to make things to order.”_ _

__Harry nodded. “Thank you,” he said, “I’ll try there.”_ _

__The shopkeeper nodded and looked at Hedwig. “Will you be wanting a cage?” Harry nodded and asked for a pack of owl treats as well. The cage had to be shrunk down a little to fit into the mouth of his rucksack and Harry paid up and left with Hedwig balanced on his arm._ _

__Outside, Harry looked up at the blue sky then back to Hedwig. The tent was covered with the usual masking charms, which meant Hedwig wouldn’t be able to find it, but Harry thought it would take her a few hours to fly to the clearing anyway_ _

__“Can you go to the Forest of Dean girl?” Harry asked her quietly, not wanting to be overheard. You’ll have to wait for me to, um...” He shuffled further to the side of the street and glanced either way. “You won’t be able to find the right place,” he settled on. “But I can sort that out later. If you just aim for the forest for now.” Hedwig bobbed her head again, then launched herself into the air with a massive beat of her wings. Harry watched her rise up and up above him until she was lost to his sight._ _

__Sylvia still hadn’t moved, and Harry sighed. He couldn’t really talk to her here, it’d have to wait until they got back to the tent._ _

__Harry walked down the alleyway to Slug and Jiggers. The inside was as smelly as he remembered, and he walked quickly past the rows of ingredients to the counter. There was a woman haggling over the price of Dragon scales, with the shopkeeper, and Harry thought over the kinds of potions he might need as he waited._ _

__By this time, the shopkeeper and the witch had come to an agreement, and he stepped to the side as she brushed past him._ _

__The shopkeeper was shaking his head, muttering to himself as he closed up the till, but he smiled down to Harry when he saw him waiting. “Sorry about that. How can I help you?”_ _

__“I would like some potions to protect my pet,” Harry said. He thought Sylvia wouldn’t react well to being taken out, but he couldn't’ really ask for mouse protecting potions and then give them to her, so he explained that he had a pet snake, from a Muggle shop, and that he was worried his owl was going to eat her._ _

__“Well,” the shopkeeper said, “I can do you some predator repelling potions. Might mean your owl and your snake don’t spend much time in each other's company though, you’ll have to spend time with them separately.”_ _

__Harry nodded, he could probably do that, he thought._ _

__“Some of the usual scale toughening, camouflage charms wouldn’t go amiss, if she’s just a common Muggle snake, she won’t have any real protection against your usual predators.”_ _

__Harry realised the shopkeeper had assumed his snake would be wandering about, kind of like magical pets did, he realised. Which was a good thing, since Sylvia wouldn’t take too kindly to living in a cage._ _

__The shopkeeper went on to list a number more potions, and in the end, he pulled out a catalogue for Harry to look at. The catalogue obligingly listed prices next to it, and in the end, Harry selected a handful of the most useful, that would give Sylvia an edge when hunting and a more general protection against threats._ _

__“How long will they last?”_ _

__“All our pet-potions guaranteed to last a year,” the man said._ _

__Harry thought that sounded pretty good and happily handed over a handful of sickles and knuts, glad that the price wasn’t too steep._ _

__With the potions wrapped in cushioning charms and shrunk down into his pocket, Harry left the shop and started to walk back up towards Which Witch._ _

__Sylvia was still silent in his pocket, and without her questions to distract him, his thoughts finally turned back to the question of Romania. He needed to find out how tricky it was to obtain a pass, he thought, and he knew the easiest way to do that would be to inquire directly at the Department of Magical Transportation. That meant going to the Ministry though, which Harry really didn’t want to do._ _

__It wasn’t like he only had bad memories of the place. In the months since the end of the war, hed visited enough times that he did, at least know his way around a few of the Departments, though not Magical Transportation, annoyingly._ _

__But no one would be looking for him there. It wasn’t like the last time when he’d had to polyjuice his way in. He tried to remember what kind of security there had been before the Ministry had fallen to corruption. There was the wand checker, he thought they had a Probity Probe._ _

__Harry’s spirits lifted. That wasn’t so bad. He wasn’t concealing anything this time around. Well, he was, but nothing that a Probe would pick up on, and nobody knew what kind of wand Harry Potter had, so if he were, for example, to call himself Dudley James, or, Harry shook his head, Evan James, that was better. Yeah, if Evan James registered his wand, submitted to being Probed for concealment charms, Evan James would be able to get through just fine._ _

__As long as his hair covered his scar, there was no reason he’d be recognised. Harry frowned. He _had_ been recognised in the muggle world occasionally, there was Dedalus Diggle, he remembered, who had bowed to him in a shop. So there had to be a few people that knew vaguely what he looked like. Though, he suspected it was catching sight of the scar that did it. Still, they might have spread word that Harry Potter wore round glasses and had messy black hair. _ _

__Harry surreptitiously made sure his fringe was down. No one had recognised him here so far. He thought hopefully. He could maybe change his glasses, he thought. He couldn’t do anything about his hair, not without the Probe picking up on it. Well, he mentally rephrased he could use muggle hair dye and not get caught, but since he had no idea how that stuff worked, he suspected he’d just make a mess of it. No, the glasses were the only thing he could reasonably change, and ‘a small boy with messy black hair and round glasses’ was almost exactly the same as ‘a small boy with messy black hair and square glasses.’ It wasn’t worth it, he thought._ _

__People who had known James would know him though, and he probably _was_ more likely to run into them at the Ministry than on the street. Though, to be honest, even on the street he was vulnerable. He winced, he hadn’t thought of that._ _

__He could wear a hat. He supposed. But the only hat he owned was the Chudley Canons one and that was bright orange. Plus it was a winter hat. He’d look a right idiot wandering around inside wearing a bright orange winter hat in summer._ _

__No, there was nothing for it, he’d have to just go and hope for the best. Harry sighed. Seemed most of his plans were a variation on that._ _

__Harry had reached Which Witch by this point, and he walked past the aisles to the lady at the counter._ _

__“Back again?” she asked, and then noticed her broom. “Ooh, nice one,” she said, admiringly._ _

__Harry, despite his distraction, smiled proudly. “Thanks.” He remembered that he’d wanted to ask about opening and closing times and did so._ _

__“Yeah,” she said. “Archway opens at eight and closes at six along with the shop, but most of Diagon is closed by then anyway,” she added._ _

__Harry, hadn’t thought of that, said thanks and asked if he could head to the back._ _

__“Oh yeah, go right ahead, don’t need permission.” She grinned._ _

__Harry walked through to the back and hesitated before crossing through. What was he going to say at the Ministry he thought. Not apparition, he thought. He didn’t have his licence. He’d have to ask about broomstick travel. His family- no, he couldn’t lie, they’d need his real name for the paperwork. But, he didn’t need to fill out the paperwork right there, he thought. In fact, better not. He didn’t want anyone knowing Harry Potter was going to Romania. Ministry security was like a sieve, next thing it’d be in the Daily Prophet._ _

__So, he could say the James family was going on holiday to Romania, and his parent had asked if he needed to get wizarding documents to go with his Muggle ones. That worked. After yesterday at Malkins, he knew the Muggleborn excuse didn’t always work very well, but surely it wasn’t such an unusual request for the Department to come across. Plus it gave him a reason to be there without his parents… sort of._ _

__He thought of Dean’s Mum and Hermione’s parents accompanying them to Diagon Alley. Well, whatever, the Dursleys had never taken him anywhere and he bet they weren’t the only family to ever not like magic. In fact, the Grangers and Mrs Thomas were probably the exceptions he thought, shoving down the uncomfortable feeling in his stomach._ _

__He glanced about, thinking now might be a good time to speak to Sylvia, and he walked over the low stone wall, sitting down and pulling her out of his pocket._ _

___“Oh so now you remember me,”_ she said, her voice tight with anger._ _

___“I was waiting for a safe place where we could talk,”_ Harry said,_ _

___“Safe? Safe?”_ she screeched. _“How will I ever be safe again with that… that monster!”__ _

___“Hedwig won’t hurt you,”_ Harry said confidently._ _

__Sylvia stared at him. _“It’s an owl,”_ she said slowly like she thought he was stupid. _“Owls. Eat. Snakes.”__ _

___“Hedwig won’t. She’s my familiar, she’ll listen when I tell her not to.”_ _ _

___“So you can speak to owls too.”_ Sylvia sounded disgusted._ _

___“Well, no, but—”_ _ _

___“No!”_ _ _

___“But she understands English.”_ Harry spoke over her. _“And,”_ he continued, _“I got these potions for you, they’ll protect you from predators, okay, all predators, they’ll keep them away from you.”__ _

__Sylvia stopped trying to interrupt him at this point and asked to see them. Harry took the potions out and even pulled the stopper out of one so she could smell it. _“It smells awful,”_ she said._ _

___“Well.”_ Harry put the stopper back in. _“Potions often do.”_ _ _

___“How do you know it will work?”_ Sylvia demanded._ _

___“Because I trust the shop I bought it from. They’re very good.”_ Sylvia still didn’t seem convinced and Harry huffed. _“Look, I knew Hedwig from the future, okay? She was one of my first friends and I had to buy her, so either you take these potions and you trust me, or… well… I guess this is where we part ways.”__ _

___“You’d just leave me?”_ Sylvia said._ _

___“No,”_ Harry said, _“I’ll help you find a den, and you can have these potions anyway, I mean, they’re no good to me and I bought them for you. But yeah, if you can’t at least try and live with Hedwig, then… I suppose I’ll have to leave you.”_ He felt extremely bad, but he wasn’t going to consider abandoning Hedwig, not after— No. It wasn’t happening._ _

__Sylvia was quiet for a while and then said in a small voice. _“I suppose you like her more than me.”__ _

__Harry sighed. He really hadn’t signed up for this._ _

__He looked around the yard. It was still empty, but he didn’t know how long it’d be before someone came back here to use the archway._ _

___“There was an attack,”_ he said finally. _“An attack on me, and Hedwig…”_ He closed his eyes, seeing again the bolt of green light. _“She died,”_ he said shortly, opening his eyes. _“In the future, and it was my fault.”__ _

__Sylvia was silent and still in his hands. Harry looked around again, then stood. _“Look, we’ve got to go, you don’t have to decide now, Hedwig can’t get into the tent until I let her anyway, but I can’t stay here talking.”__ _

__Thinking about what happened to Hedwig in the future made him uneasily aware that, right now, she was alive. Did he have a duty to try and change things so that she wouldn’t die? Or did he have a duty to go back? To get back to his real life, his friends, the future he’d fought for?_ _

__Was he being selfish he thought suddenly. Was his desperate desire to get back to the cave, get back to the future, was it selfish?_ _

__Harry didn’t know. He couldn’t bear to pick apart his desire to get home. He just wanted it. He wanted his friends, he wanted his life. He didn’t want to live the war again. All the losses, all the fighting. The sacrifices._ _

__Was that selfishness? To not want to live through the war a second time? Was it wrong to want… freedom?_ _

__Did he even deserve it, he thought suddenly, looking down at the snake in his hands._ _

___“Well,”_ Sylvia said. _“Let’s go then.”__ _

__Harry nodded and dropped her back into his pocket. He picked up his broom._ _

__He didn’t know the answers to those questions. Even holding them in his mind hurt, like the edges were sharp and they cut him as he considered them._ _

__It was easier, he realised, much easier to just focus on one thing after the next. On getting to the Ministry, getting to Romania. The big question, staying in the past or leaving. It wasn’t something he could answer._ _

__Harry stepped through the arch._ _

__**_ _

__There were a number of telephone boxes in Covent Garden, and Harry had no trouble finding an empty one and dialling the Ministry. “Evan James,” he said clearly, when prompted, “Researching International Passes.” He stuck the badge onto his robe when it spat out, catching his breath, gripping his broom tightly as he was spun away and into the Ministry Atrium._ _

__The Ministry he remembered looked surprisingly similar to the Ministry he arrived in. The monstrosity of a statue was long gone in the future, and the banners had been removed too. The Ministry of his time, in fact, looked rather bare compared to this one. But the green tiles and the rows of fireplaces were the same._ _

__Since it was the middle of a weekday, the Ministry was fairly busy, and Harry kept his head down as he walked across the long atrium floor to the wand checker at the gate. Harry joined the queue and checked his fringe. When it was his turn, he walked carefully forward, trying not to move his head. His heartbeat was rising even though he knew this wasn’t nearly as dangerous as the last time he’d broken in. He wasn’t even, technically, breaking in, he thought._ _

__The wand checker ran the Probe past him and Harry held his breath, after a moment, the man dropped it on the desk and reached out his hand. “Wand,” he barked._ _

__Harry tugged his wand out of its holster and handed it over quickly. It was weighed, and then just as last time, the man read out the information on the slip. “Eleven inches, phoenix-feather core, been in use,” he sniffed, “less than a year. That correct?”_ _

__Harry almost nodded, then remembered he didn’t want to move his head. “Yeah, yes. That’s right.”_ _

__The man handed his wand back and Harry amazed it had been so easy, walked quickly past him. He’d done it. He was in without being recognised!_ _

__Harry went straight for the lift and got in the next available one, standing next to a tall wizard with bright green robes, and a shorter witch in a very muggle looking suit._ _

__“Number?” She asked him kindly._ _

__“Oh, six, please.”_ _

__Sylvia wriggled in Harry’s pocket and Harry put his hand on her quickly._ _

__“Broomsticks, is it?” The woman said, and Harry looked up at her._ _

__“Uh. Yes,” he replied, pulling his broom a bit closer to him._ _

__The lift let out an announcement for level two and Harry shuffled around as the wizard behind him got out, then stepped back quickly as someone in a wide-shouldered brown trench coat stepped in. Harry’s eyes widened as he realised he recognised Auror Dawlish._ _

__He stood hidden behind the man’s bulk as a couple of witches got on, chatting to each other about something called the Babbling Bill, which, as the lift started moving again, Harry released was some sort of legislation over truth potions._ _

__“Make your work a bit easier, won’t it John?” One of the witches asked._ _

__Dawlish just grunted, and he saw the other witch roll her eyes and mouth ‘Aurors’ to her friend._ _

__Harry, feeling offended on behalf of the profession, nevertheless decided he better keep his head down, and he was very glad when the two of them got off on the next level. The witch who had asked him which level he wanted got off next, and Harry, Auror Dawlish and the tall wizard rode the lift in silence down to level six._ _

__Harry who had been boxed into the corner by the influx previously, had to squeeze between them to get out, muttering apologies when he hooked the tall wizard’s leg with one of his broom’s foot-rests._ _

__He finally escaped the lift and breathed out in relief as the doors closed behind him. Harry walked swiftly down the corridor until he reached a door that said Broom Regulatory Control._ _

__Hoping this would work, Harry took a deep breath and knocked. After a moment he heard a muffled, “Come in,” emanate from the other side of the door. Harry twisted the knob and pushed the door open._ _

__The office was fairly small, with one large desk to his right, and two smaller desks back to back on his left. The one on the right seemed slightly grander, with a green leather blotter under neatly aligned stacks of paperwork and a shiny brass model of a broomstick sitting to one side that spun slowly in the air._ _

__The only desk that was occupied, was one of the smaller desks, and the Asian woman working in it glanced up from the paper she was writing on, only to stare in surprise at Harry._ _

__“Yes?” she said, after a moment. “Can I help you?” She asked in a clear, crisp voice._ _

__Harry took a step forward towards her. “I, um, I wanted to ask about International Passes,” he said, “to Europe.”_ _

__She glanced at his broom, then back to him. “Are you here on your own?” She asked, her eyes straying to the door._ _

__“Yes,” Harry said. “My family is Muggle.”_ _

__The woman looked at him. “Muggles can get dispensation to visit the Ministry, you know,” but her voice had softened a tiny bit, Harry heard with relief._ _

__The paper on the woman’s desk fluttered suddenly, and Harry, looking down at it, realised he recognised it as one of the flying interdepartmental memos._ _

__“One minute,” the witch said and she went back to writing quickly._ _

__Harry took the opportunity to look around. There were a stack of filing cabinets on the far wall between the desk, then two windows on either side. On the left wall of the room, behind the desk, were floor to ceiling bookshelves, which contained lots of black and red cloth-bound books with long titles._ _

__The woman finally stood and walked past Harry to the door, opening it and throwing the memo up into the air. She watched it flit away down the hallway, then turned back to Harry._ _

__“Right then,” she said and gave him a quick smile. “Why don’t you sit,” she said, and she picked up the chair from the other desk and carried it round beside her own, gesturing for him to take it, before sitting back down._ _

__“What did you want to ask? She said, crossing her legs at the ankle._ _

__Harry leant his broom against the side of the chair and sat down. “I wanted to know, “ he began slowly “how to get an International Pass to travel to Europe. My family are going there on holiday and I wasn’t sure if, because I’m a wizard, I’d need some extra, magical paperwork. On top of the Muggle ones, I mean.”_ _

__The woman nodded and tucked a strand of her pepper grey hair behind her ear. “You intend to travel as a Muggle?” She asked, looking at his broom uncertainty._ _

__Shit, Harry thought._ _

__“No. I thought I might, um, visit some magical areas while I was there. On my broom.” He gestured._ _

__“On your own?” the woman asked._ _

__Harry looked at her. “Yes?” he racked his brains. “I’ll hire a tour guide of course.” Then, thinking about the kind of holidays that Aunt Marge used to talk about, he continued “I’ll go with a tour group, I mean. I won’t actually be on my own, of course.” He laughed weakly, “My family wouldn’t want that.”_ _

__The witch seemed to take this lie as truth because she leaned back slightly in her chair and nodded. “Will these trips be within a country or cross-border?”_ _

__“Oh, um, it’ll be inside a country, but I think we’ll be visiting the seaside?” He said, thinking about the coastline wards._ _

__“Well,” she said. “You’ll certainly run against coastal borders in that case. If you cross a border using magical transport, such as a broom.” She nodded towards his. “You will certainly require an International Pass. However, these are country-specific, you can’t simply apply for one to cover the whole of Europe.”_ _

__“How long does it take?” Harry asked. Sidestepping the country issue for a moment._ _

__“The application? Two to three weeks depending on the length of the stay. “How long would you be visiting?”_ _

__“Um, a week I think.”_ _

__She frowned at him. “I would recommend you ask your parents for some more details.” She glanced at the papers on her desk and Harry thought she was starting to think he was wasting her time._ _

__“Can I take an application form?” He asked._ _

__She looked back at him._ _

__“I can fill it out at home then, and get all the details.”_ _

__“Not unless I know which country it is you’re visiting,” she said._ _

__“Oh yeah, sorry,” he said. “It’s Romania.”_ _

__She stood up and walked over to the filing cabinet, crouching down and pulling open the third shelf from the bottom, she sorted through the files, then pulled out a very thin, green piece of parchment._ _

__She stood and handed it over to Harry. “You’ll need to fill out the sections marked, then bring it back here and we forward it on to the Romanian Consulate here in London, once they’ve approved it, it comes back here and you can either collect or receive it by Owl Post._ _

__Harry scanned the form quickly. It wanted name… country of origin, destination, duration of trip… Harry flipped the page over to where the text continued on the other side, there was space for the stamp from the Ministry of Magic, then one from the Romanian Ministry, lots more ‘office use only’ sections and then there, right at the bottom. Signature of Wizard of Witch making application, and below it _If witch or wizard is below the age of majority, signature of guardian is required >__ _

__Damn._ _

__Harry looked up at the witch._ _

__“Signature of guardian, is that necessary? I mean, if they’re not magical?”_ _

__“Certainly, she laughed, children can’t simply fly off on their own you know, even magical ones.”_ _

__Harry stared at her. “Right. Haha.”_ _

__He took the page back._ _

__“Thanks,” he said finally, standing up._ _

__She sat back down behind her desk._ _

__Harry picked up his broom, then looked down at the chair. “Shall I...”_ _

__The witch, who had already picked up another memo sheet, looked up at him. “Oh no, don’t worry.” She smiled briefly._ _

__“Okay, um, thanks,” Harry said, trying to hide how his spirits had sunk._ _

__“You’re welcome. Enjoy your trip,” she said, and with that, she turned back to her memo and began writing._ _

__Harry slipped out the door and walked down the corridor._ _

__Well. He sighed. That was out then. He should have guessed the Dursleys would find a way to ruin this for him. Harry grit his teeth and gripped his broom tightly. He felt Sylvia shift again, and Harry put his hand in his pocket and stroked her softly. Hoping she’d understand the need to stay quiet._ _

__Harry went straight to the lifts and joined the rest of the Ministry workers and visitors on their way up. Focusing on not letting his anger and frustration overwhelm him again, he paid little attention to the people he was riding with and stepped out quicker than he expected into the Atrium._ _

__He walked past the gates, then slowed to a stop, making the wizard behind him harrumph and step around him._ _

__He’d have to floo out, he realised. He didn’t know what the other routes out of the Ministry were. There had to be a Muggle friendly way out, but he had no idea what it might be, he’d never needed to use it. Harry joined one of the queues for the fireplaces and tried to think where would be best. The Leaky would be okay, but he needed to apparate back to the tent, which meant he’d need to find somewhere in Muggle London to hide. Was there somewhere easier he could go? He could try the Hog’s Head, he thought. But he was pretty sure he wouldn’t be able to manage the apparition jump from so far away._ _

__The woman in front of Harry whooshed away in a flurry of flames and Harry, his time up grabbed a pinch of floo and shouted, “The Leaky Cauldron,” before stepping in and whirling away._ _

__He was pushed out at the other side on a spinning cloud of air, and he tripped, almost falling on the flagstones. Harry sneezed._ _

__“Bend your knees!” Someone shouted at him and then laughed raucously._ _

__Harry’s hand went to his fringe quickly, then he tried to pass it off as brushing soot off, and he did the same to his shoulders and shook out his cloak._ _

__He wasn’t sure who had shouted, but enough patrons of the Cauldron were looking his way for Harry to feel uncomfortably watched, so he walked quickly towards the doors and stepped out into Muggle London._ _

__It took Harry quite a while to find a likely place to apparate, he ended up finding an alleyway round the back of a Korean Restaurant and a theatre, and ducking behind the fire escape, standing close to the overflowing dustbins, Harry took a moment to look around himself carefully, then, gathering his focus, he disappeared with a crack and landed on the threadbare rug in the middle of the tent._ _

__Harry looked around with relief, feeling like he was finally able to breathe properly again now that he was somewhere secure._ _

___“Hate that,”_ Sylvia said suddenly, Harry had to agree. He pulled her out of his pocket and brought her over to the table and laid his broom carefully over the books that were still lying open._ _

__Harry emptied the rest of his pockets while he was at it, placing the potions carefully next to Sylvia, and the useless Romanian application next to them._ _

__He looked across the tent at the kitchenette and decided to make himself some tea._ _

__Sylvia was investigating the potions and she called out questions to him as he boiled the kettle and washed his cup from this morning._ _

___“How do they work?”_ Sylvia asked._ _

___“Most of them you drink,”_ he said. _“There’s a piece of parchment in there that has notes on each of them.”__ _

__He brought his tea over to the table and looked down on her._ _

___“You’ll take them then?”_ _ _

__Sylvia wriggled around them and came towards him. _“I will.”__ _

___“And you’ll stay?”_ Harry asked, realising he was hoping she’d say yes. _ _

__She was silent for a moment, then bobbed her head. _“But if that monster makes a move against me, I’m leaving,”_ She said with finality._ _

___“I’ll speak to her,”_ Harry promised, pleased she’d decided to stay._ _

__He picked up the note and cast his eye over the instructions. The various edible ones could be swallowed in succession, he read, but the two that required Sylvia to soak in, each needed at least a minute each to be fully absorbed, but no longer, without risk of becoming too strong. It didn’t say which should be first so Harry assumed it wouldn’t matter. He asked her if she wanted to drink or soak first._ _

__She tasted the air. _“They all smell horrible,”_ she said._ _

___“Yeah sorry.”_ Harry shrugged._ _

___“I will drink them first.”_ She said finally._ _

__Harry sat down and unstoppered the first potion, The glass vial was extremely tiny, and he tilted it carefully when Sylvia opened her mouth so that it could run straight down her throat._ _

__She opened and closed her mouth a couple of times after it was gone, and made a disgusted noise._ _

__Harry gave her a minute to get over the taste, then picked up the next vial. There were four to swallow in all, and once done Sylvia curled up tight and shivered._ _

___“You okay?” Harry asked concerned and scanned the parchment quickly to see if it said anything about reactions._ _ _

___After a moment Sylvia poked her head out. _“Feels strange,”_ she said. _“Not… not bad.”__ _ _

___Harry walked over to fill a bowl with water and brought it back to her._ _ _

___After drinking that, she agreed to try the first soaking potion. This smelt much better than the others. Harry thought it smelt kind of like the compost they’d used in Herbology lessons._ _ _

___He went to get a second bowl out and poured the potion in. Sylvia slid into it, complaining about the cold and Harry got the alarm clock, setting it so they could both see the face, he pointed out the red second hand and explained when the minute would be up._ _ _

___Sylvia lay very still watching the clock and Harry sipped his tea._ _ _

___They repeated the process for the second potion and Sylvia wriggled out. Harry thought she was moving sluggishly, so after scrubbing the bowl down, then setting it aside, not sure it would be safe to eat out of anymore, he picked her up carefully and took her to the linen cupboard._ _ _

___She seemed sleepy and Harry wasn’t sure if that was the potions or just normal snake behaviour. He decided he’d come and check on her after._ _ _

____“I’m going to get Hedwig now.”_ _ _ _

____“She can’t come in here.”_ Sylvia said, rousing her self._ _ _

____“No, not in the bathroom, Harry said, looking at the door. But I’ll let her into the main section._ _ _ _

____Sylvia huffed, but she didn’t say anything else, so Harry figured that counted as agreement._ _ _ _

____He walked back through the tent and outside, raising his wand and carefully he took down the masking charm. Now people could find him, he thought uneasily and he’d get letters, though, who would write to him? No one had ever written to him before Hogwarts._ _ _ _

____Harry lowered his wand and waited for Hedwig to appear, hoping she’d made it to the Forest._ _ _ _

____It was strange, he thought, that despite everyone knowing who he was, that no one had written to him at Privet Drive. It wasn’t like there had been a masking spell there. The blood wards might have stopped a Death Eater from writing to him, he supposed, but anyone else should have been able to. It certainly hadn’t stopped his friends, or the Ministry, or the Hogwarts letter itself._ _ _ _

____Harry frowned, it was strange actually, considering the volume of useless mail he’d started getting after the war, (anything from thank yous to death threats to declarations of love to packages full of dangerous poisons). He’d had to contact the official owl post headquarters and a team who specialised in celebrity post issues had come and shown him which wards to put up._ _ _ _

____Was his post being redirected, he wondered._ _ _ _

____Yet another question that no doubt let to Dumbledore he thought unhappily. Then, catching sight of a flash of white above him, Harry let his annoyance slip away and he raised his arm for Hedwig to land._ _ _ _

____“Hello girl,” he said happily. He spent a moment stroking her softly and admiring her plumage. He couldn’t believe she was here, alive._ _ _ _

____He turned his face into her wing, and closed his eyes, breathing in the familiar scent as she nibbled his ear._ _ _ _

____Would she die if he left?_ _ _ _

____What about his life? What about everyone in the future? Didn’t he owe it to them to try? What if staying made it worse? He’d already changed too much. He hadn’t tried to keep things the same at all. What if he’d already fucked the future up. What if there was no future to return to at all?_ _ _ _

____He sniffed and looked at Hedwig._ _ _ _

____“What should I do, girl?”_ _ _ _

____Hedwig just hooted softly._ _ _ _

____Harry felt again the keenness of being alone. He wished there was someone he could trust. Someone he could turn to, not to take the decisions away from him, but to work with him to make those decisions. Together._ _ _ _

____Harry sighed. But there was no one. Here, in this time, Harry Potter’s only friends were a snake and an owl._ _ _ _

____Harry dried his tears and turned towards the tent. He remembered to remind Hedwig not to hurt Sylvia, he thought the tilt of her head she gave in response was as close as she ever got to an eye roll._ _ _ _

____**_ _ _ _

____Harry spent the rest of the day in a daze. He tried to read his books, but even _Life on the Broom_ the most enjoyable read of the lot, was too much for him and he lost focus after only a few pages._ _ _ _

____In the end, Harry made sure Sylvia and Hedwig had water and left one of the tent flaps open for them to leave then curled up in bed and went to sleep._ _ _ _

____He woke late in the evening hungry and thirsty. He’d forgotten to eat lunch, he realised._ _ _ _

____Harry stretched and pulled his warm robe out of the cupboard, heading into the tent in his pyjamas. His toes quickly grew cold and Harry yawned widely, casting a warming charm down at the floorboards._ _ _ _

____Making food seemed like more trouble than it was worth, so he filled the kettle and engaged the heating charms, unwrapping one of the chocolate bars._ _ _ _

____He looked around the room. Hedwig had gone and for a moment he worried she’d get lost like Sylvia but then he remembered that she’d found him once already. Owls really were amazing he thought absently._ _ _ _

____He scratched his head, his hair was sticking up every which way. He tried to cast some brushing charms, but they just made it fluff up even more, so he gave up._ _ _ _

____He didn’t look at the table were the books and Application form lay. There were a weight of things he ought to be doing, decisions he ought to be making They all pressed in at the corners of his mind, pinched at the skin of his back. He refused to focus on them. Refused to allow them in. He wasn’t thinking about any of it right now, he decided. It was too late in the day. The day was almost over, in fact. Today was done. Tomorrow he could decide._ _ _ _

____This decision seemed to quell the whispering thoughts slightly, and Harry finished making his tea, then brought it over to the sofa._ _ _ _

____Most of the books on his shelf were so tightly tied to the things he wasn’t thinking about, he didn’t dare touch them. He didn’t think he could handle the strident, heroic ton of _Witch Without a Wand_ but the Animagus book, he realised, wouldn’t remind him of anything._ _ _ _

____Except Sirius._ _ _ _

____Who was alive._ _ _ _

____Who was in Azkaban. Who was alive and in Azkaban right now and…_ _ _ _

____Nut no. Harry shook his head No, no. What could he do about that? Nothing. It was late and he was in a tent in the middle of nowhere and he wasn’t thinking about anything until tomorrow._ _ _ _

____“Tomorrow,” he repeated out loud._ _ _ _

____The thought spiral had almost erased his desire to learn about Animagi, but the alternative was going back to sleep again and he was aware that the desire to sleep the day away wasn’t a healthy one._ _ _ _

____He didn’t want to consider that thought either, so he quickly reached out and pulled the Animagi book onto his lap._ _ _ _

_____Amazing Animagi_ the book was called, and inside was printed a detailed illustration of a wizard walking into the picture frame, leaping into the air and transforming into a large bird, that circled, then flew out the other side._ _ _ _

____Harry watched this cycle round a couple of times, before turning to the contents. Skipping the introduction, Harry jumped directly to the first chapter._ _ _ _

____It began with a quote about transfiguration, then described the differences between other human to animal transformations that weren’t ‘self-cast’._ _ _ _

____" The key point of all these exercises is to remember that one is not turning into an animal, but bringing the animal out from within. The Animagus charm acts in a similar way to the Patronus charm in that it embodies an animal that represents the caster. It does not change the caster into something else." _ _ _ _

____Harry wondered if that meant he’d become a stag just like his dad. He thought he might like that. Harry scanned the text, not really reading it properly until he caught another mention of the Patronus._ _ _ _

____"... and in fact a common mistake casters make is in trying to force the transformation into an animal that one wants or expects. In this way, the Patronus charm can be a help or a hindrance, while many Animagi share the same animal with their Patronus. A wizard or witch’s Patronus may change through their life, the Aminagus form never will. Further, the Patronus represents only one facet of the caster’s spirit thanks to the focus of purely positive emotions, the Animagus is a more holistic representation." _ _ _ _

____" Always a caster must maintain an open and ready temperament, allowing the animal to patiently and welcomingly be coaxed into the open." _ _ _ _

____Maybe not a stag then, Harry thought_ _ _ _

____He skipped ahead to the exercises section. They were aimed, Harry read, at allowing the caster to ‘see’ the animal in his or her mind’s eye. And they looked, Harry saw with a sinking feeling, a hell of a lot like Occlumency exercises._ _ _ _

____Snape’s, “Clear your mind, Potter.” echoing in his head, Harry read down the list._ _ _ _

____Great, he thought. He placed the book on the coffee table and leant back into the sofa. Fat lot of good that would do, he’d always been terrible at Occlumency._ _ _ _

____He’d never really tried, he supposed. He’d always thought having a link to Voldemort in his head was worth the risk._ _ _ _

____Had it been, he wondered. Had the knowledge been worth it?_ _ _ _

____He sipped his tea and stared at the book. Then suddenly coming to a decision, he put down his mug and tugged the book forwards, reading the instructions again._ _ _ _

____Harry settled back in his chair, held his wand loosely in his lap closed his eyes, and tried to focus on his breath. He breathed in and tried to focus only on the sensation of the air in his throat, the expanding of his lungs. He tried, like the book said, to recognise his thoughts, and then set them aside._ _ _ _

____His nose itched._ _ _ _

____He breathed in, he breathed out. The question of whether he should have learned Occlumency resurfaced, he should have tried at least. He tied to remember how many times he’s got useful knowledge from Voldemort. There was the attack on… no… let it go._ _ _ _

____He breathed in, he breathed out._ _ _ _

____He thought he probably looked pretty stupid sitting here._ _ _ _

____He breathed in, he breathed out._ _ _ _

____He focused on his body, working, like the text had said, from his toes, slowly, patiently, up his entire body, noticing the way it felt to sit in this position, the places where his weight fell, the contact with the sofa, the texture of the wool blanket that had pooled around his waist._ _ _ _

____When Harry reached the top of his head, he twitched his fingers and whispered the incantation._ _ _ _

____He breathed in…_ _ _ _

____Nothing happened._ _ _ _

____Harry realised he was holding his breath and snapped his eyes open in frustration._ _ _ _

____He swallowed and shivered restlessly feeling strange after sitting still for so long._ _ _ _

____The book had said it wasn’t easy, he thought, stretching out. It was properly dark, he realised and when he leant forward, he saw his tea had gone cold._ _ _ _

____He’d sleep, he thought, and tomorrow he would decide what to do next and for the first time, when his worries crowded in, he found it wasn’t so hard to set them, gently, to the side._ _ _ _

____**_ _ _ _

____Harry woke the next morning around nine. He’d brought the clock into the bedroom with him last night, and it cheered him up to see it sitting there in Gryffindor colours. He wondered if he should start using the alarm and sat up, putting on his glasses so that he could see properly and set it for nine._ _ _ _

____He was starving again, and he realised he’d missed more meals. He needed to stop doing that._ _ _ _

____Harry put some socks on this time, before wandering through to the kitchen with his robe around his shoulders._ _ _ _

____He made himself cheese on toast and sat at the table to eat._ _ _ _

____Hedwig was still out, and Sylvia either the same or asleep in her cupboard, so he was able to wake up slowly in silence._ _ _ _

____He thought it might be nice to pick up a radio when he next got the chance._ _ _ _

____Harry finished his breakfast, then looked across at the books and at the broomstick laid over them._ _ _ _

____It would, he thought, be foolish to give up after spending all this effort on trying to find a way to Romania. He needed to know there was a way back. Whether he used it or not, he needed to know if it was there. He knew if he didn’t check, the question would hang over him forever._ _ _ _

____He needed to make a note of those markings. His mind kept shying away every time he tried to remember them. He thought it must be part of the spell. He needed to write them down somewhere, so that they existed, so that he could at the very least, find out what language they were. He needed a sample of the sand, he needed to know if it really was the same kind they put in time turners._ _ _ _

____More than that, he finally admitted. He wanted to go back. He wanted his own life, not this unsettling second childhood. He wanted his own friends, the ones who had lived through all the suffering and the successes with him. He wanted to go home. He just didn’t know if that desire could be balanced against the losses._ _ _ _

____Harry stared, unseeing at the Romanian Travel application for a minute, before finally picking it up and folding it carefully in between the pages of the Atlas._ _ _ _

____He wasn’t going back to Privet Drive to get a signature. They wouldn’t do it voluntarily and he wasn’t going to force them, the thought was both horrifying and tempting and Harry shook his head, slamming the Atlas closed. No, he’d have to make the final part of the journey the Muggle way. Harry stacked the books on top of each other, then carried his dishes over to the sink._ _ _ _

____He’d need food he thought, looking at the kitchen cupboards._ _ _ _

____He wasn’t sure what he’d need for the Muggle part. Money, Romanian Muggle money, so that meant he’d need to exchange it, probably better to do that here than there. He wondered if Gringotts could do it for him, he doubted a Muggle bank would let a child exchange money._ _ _ _

____Could you hike in wizarding boots he wondered, looking down at his feet. He supposed he’d find out. He’d never really had to walk very far, wizards didn’t on the whole, not with magic at their fingertips. He thought he should probably try and find that wizarding cobbler. He finished the washing up and waved his hands to dry them._ _ _ _

____Harry walked back over to the table and looked down at the books, scanning his eyes over the map, hoping something familiar might jump out. It would be so much easier if he just remembered where he was going, he thought. He wished he knew where the cabin was. He wished he’d paid more attention when Charlie had told him about it. If only he could ask him now._ _ _ _

____Harry looked up, unseeing, at the tent walls. _Could_ he just ask Charlie? Charlie had been working in Romania at least from Harry’s second year when they sent Norbert off. Had he been working there long? Harry couldn’t remember. He couldn’t remember when Ron had first mentioned his brothers. He’d know the family for so long…_ _ _ _

____He didn’t know when Charlie had become friends with the person that owned the cabin. They might not know each other yet… but… they might._ _ _ _

____Harry looked down at the page. If he had a name, a location to aim for, it would make his life so much simpler._ _ _ _

____Harry tapped his fingers on the table._ _ _ _

____He couldn’t just write to Charlie._ _ _ _

____Oh hi, I’m Harry Potter, yes, _The_ Harry Potter, you don’t know me, but can you please tell me about your friend’s cabin in Romania?_ _ _ _

____That just, would not work. Charlie would be understandably suspicious, he’d speak to his Dad, his dad would ask around, and eventually, either the Ministry or Dumbledore would track him down. Probably both._ _ _ _

____Harry sighed. Charlie had been willing to smuggle a dragon out of the country, but… he’d done that for Ron’s and for the dragon itself, not for a Harry Potter he didn’t know._ _ _ _

____Could he ask for advice, he wondered. Could he say… he’d heard that Charlie worked with dragons and… no. He didn’t want to know about dragons. He could say he’d heard Charlie worked in Romania and he wanted to know about the good holiday destinations, because…_ _ _ _

____Harry suddenly sat up, because he wanted to go on holiday there one day. He was saving up. Just like he’d told Lucy at Splinter and Kreeks, and in fact, Harry thought, a smile starting to grow on his face, he could even say Lucy had told him to ask._ _ _ _

____She had to know Charlie, Charlie had been seeker for Gryffindor, Charlie was probably about her age, close enough that they must have been at Hogwarts together. If she went to Hogwarts. Harry thought since she lived here and Cho went, she probably had too._ _ _ _

____She might not know he worked in Romania though. She might have been Ravenclaw, like Cho, which meant, she’d know the Gryffindor seeker by name, but… Harry sighed. Well if he couldn’t use Lucy as an introduction, he’d just have to… have to… Harry didn’t know. He’d have to find some other excuse to have known who Charlie was and where he worked._ _ _ _

____Harry sighed, his good mood deflating slightly. It was a good idea, he insisted. It had a least a… fifty per cent chance of working, he thought._ _ _ _

____He stood up. He should get dressed he thought, then go and try. No time like the present._ _ _ _

____Harry got ready to go out, poking his head in the cupboard to tell Sylvia and check she was okay. She seemed fine, her scales actually looked slightly glossier, and Harry told her so, which made her preen a little._ _ _ _

____Harry remembered he needed to find the cobbler as he tugged on his boots, and he straightened up, thinking about where he’d apparate to. He didn’t think he should use the churchyard again, so he disillusioned himself then fixed his mind on the alleyway he’d used last time._ _ _ _

____The crack seemed just as loud as ever and Harry glanced about, but nobody came to investigate, and Harry made himself visible once more. He tucked his robe over his arm, deciding he should probably stop wearing it all about muggle London. It was a bit conspicuous. He reached the Leaky quickly, and slung his robe back on, walking straight through to the back. Tom caught his eye and Harry smiled briefly. He thought he was going to get questions soon if he kept coming here all week. Questions like why aren’t you in school?_ _ _ _

____He needed to be gone soon. He thought._ _ _ _

____The familiar route to Low End passed quickly, and Harry walked into Splinter and Kreeks, looking around for Lucy. She was serving an older woman, who was insisting the Shooting Star she was trying to sell was worth more than Lucy wanted to pay, and Harry watched as Lucy calmly and implacably stared her down._ _ _ _

____“Fine,” the woman finally spat, “I’ll take my custom to Second Hand Brooms.”_ _ _ _

____“They won’t give you any more for it,” Lucy said._ _ _ _

____“We’ll see about that,” the woman replied, turning on her heel and striding out. Harry tucked himself in the corner and didn’t come out until the slam of the door had faded away._ _ _ _

____Lucy who was staring at the door with a fixed expression on her face, visibly brightened when she saw Harry._ _ _ _

____“Harry,” she exclaimed, “How’s the broom?”_ _ _ _

____Harry, awkwardly said it was fine, feeling a bit stupid for not having tried it yet._ _ _ _

____“You took it to Quality Quidditch?”_ _ _ _

____“Yeah,” Harry said. “They filled in the scratch.”_ _ _ _

____Lucy nodded. “Oh, of course, I forgot they work with hardwood sawdust now.”_ _ _ _

____Harry, who didn’t know anything about how broom repair worked just nodded._ _ _ _

____“Well, What can I do for you?” Lucy asked, resting her arms on the counter as she looked down at him._ _ _ _

____“It’s about my trip,” he said, “The one I’m planning? I was looking at some of the books you recommended, and some maps,” he added, realising that he had no idea whether or not the National Flyer had put out an issue on Romania. “And I was thinking of some of the countries I might want to visit, and then I thought, It’d be really good to get some advice on those countries from people who’ve actually lived there. And I was wondering if you might know people. Witches and wizards that is, who live abroad.”_ _ _ _

____He looked up at her._ _ _ _

____She considered his question, “I know people, yeah.” She nodded. If she wondered why Harry was asking her, a shopkeeper he barely knew, rather than any of the people one would expect The Boy Who Lived to turn to for advice, she didn’t let a hint of it appear on her face._ _ _ _

____“Which countries?” She asked._ _ _ _

____Harry, who had decided to pick the various places he really would be going through, just in case the information came in handy, listed them off for her._ _ _ _

____Lucy scratched her cheek. “Well, France is easy, my sister moved to Paris last year, and Austria I can do as well, one of my school friends is studying at the _Akademie der Zaubertrank_.” She noticed Harry’s look of confusion, “Potions Academy,” she clarified._ _ _ _

____“Hmm, what were the others? Germany, Romania and Hungary?” She shook her head, then pushed away from the counter. “Well, there’s only one person we can ask.”_ _ _ _

____Harry frowned in confusion. “Who?” he asked, with the sudden irrational fear she’d say Dumbledore._ _ _ _

____“Polly of course.” Lucy smiled down at him, then gestured for him to follow her out of the shop._ _ _ _

____“The wizarding world is surprisingly tiny, Ha—” She paused, her hand on the door._ _ _ _

____“Evan. Evan James,” Harry said, and then his hand shot to his chest, where he realised he was still wearing the Ministry badge. He took it off and shoved it into his pocket, his face flaming. How stupid!_ _ _ _

____Lucy, who was clearly confused by his sudden movement was still looking down at him._ _ _ _

____“You could call me Evan,” he said. “I mean, out there.” He gestured toward the door._ _ _ _

____“Would you prefer I introduce you as Evan?” she asked._ _ _ _

____Harry hesitated. “How come you don’t mind?” I mean, I’m lying to people.”_ _ _ _

____Lucy considered this, then she did something Harry didn’t expect. She crouched down so she was the same height as him and looked at him seriously._ _ _ _

____“What you did, Harry. It saved a lot of people.”_ _ _ _

____Harry, who wanted to protest that it hadn’t been him, it had been his mother, just shook his head._ _ _ _

____“No, I mean it,” she continued, talking quickly, perhaps seeing how uncomfortable this made him._ _ _ _

____“We all,” she flicked her head to indicate the world outside, “Owe you. And for some people, that makes them star struck, Makes them want to get close to you, I imagine.” She looked at him with clear, dark eyes that saw far too much. “So if I can repay you, by keeping a bit of that, out of your hair...” At this, she glanced at his hair with a smile. Harry, who knew it hadn’t quite settled from his attempt to magically comb it, ducked his head._ _ _ _

____“You did us a favour, Harry Potter, consider this my way of paying you back.”_ _ _ _

____Harry took a deep breath. He wasn’t sure what to say. But Lucy didn’t seem to require a reply. She stood, and flipped the sign on the door over to closed. “So,” she said, “Evan, shall we?”_ _ _ _

____They walked down to the Foreign Language bookstore, which Harry, who hadn’t read the sign the first time, now saw it was called Polly Glot’s. He wondered which came first, the pun or the name._ _ _ _

____Harry, expecting a round, cheerful, flowery sort of person, was very surprised when Lucy introduced Harry to a tall, black-robed young woman, with very straight dark hair, thick eyebrows and a slight Slavic accent. She was sort of like if Viktor Krum had a much taller, skinnier sister. Despite her sombre appearance, she was willing to help young ‘Evan’ once Lucy had explained._ _ _ _

____Polly plucked a piece of paper from the tray by the till and began to note down names and addresses._ _ _ _

____For France, they had Lucy’s sister, Amy, who had married a French wizard. They also had a school friend of Polly, Anastasia Ivanova who worked in the Russian Wizarding Consulate in France. Harry guessed this meant Polly had either gone to Beauxbatons or Durmstrang and realised, while he was probably going to get a lot of useful holiday advice from this, he wasn’t going to get much useful Charlie Weasley advice._ _ _ _

____They went on to list a handful of other names for each of the other countries, including Romania. Between then they had school friends, friends of friends, family friends. The wizarding world really was, like Lucy said, a very tiny place._ _ _ _

____They were making an effort to pick people who knew the country, or who wouldn’t mind giving a child a guided tour, and Harry thought he appreciated the effort they were putting in, thought he better think up a way to get this back on Charlie._ _ _ _

____“Do you know… Are any of them from Britain? Or went to school here? I’d be interested to know what a British wizard thinks, you know, the kind of mistakes I might make, or the kind of places to go if I get homesick, that sort of thing.”_ _ _ _

____He thought his excuse sounded pretty good and the two women seemed to accept it. Polly underlined Amy’s name, and Hamza, the name of the Potion’s student in Austria. “Yours are both British,” she said to Lucy, without looking up. “And Joseph, he is British,” she underlined the name of one of the contacts for Germany. “But for these…” She tapped the lists for Hungary and Romania and looked at Harry, shaking her head. “There are people who I work with for the shop, book collectors, translators, but I don’t know… they are professional contacts, you understand, not so much friends.”_ _ _ _

____Harry, nodding, turned to Lucy, but she was shaking her head as well. “Sorry Evan, those two are all I’ve got for those countries.”_ _ _ _

____Harry dropped his shoulders. Well, he’d tried. He couldn’t think of a way to bring Charlie into the conversation and he thought they would have mentioned him anyway if they’d known Clearly they didn’t. He tried not to look visibly discouraged._ _ _ _

____“Well, this is still a great list,” he said. “Thank you.”_ _ _ _

____Polly handed it over. “Sorry I could not be more help.”_ _ _ _

____Harry, feeling awful, insisted that she really had been helpful, both of them and Lucy smiled, thought Polly’s face didn’t shift from its sombre look. Lucy led him out and Harry turned to her before they reached her shop. “She wasn’t offended was she?” Harry asked. I don’t want to seem ungrateful._ _ _ _

____Lucy laughed. “Oh no, that’s just Polly, don’t worry. She doesn’t emote like normal people.”_ _ _ _

____“She communicates through minuscule eyebrow movements,” another voice said, and Harry turned to see the shop assistant from Dud’s Duds leaning in the doorway of his shop._ _ _ _

____“Hello again,” he said, recognising Harry._ _ _ _

____“Hi,” Harry said._ _ _ _

____“Hey Dawud, you don’t know any British expats do you?”_ _ _ _

____The man, whose name was apparently Dawud, not Dudley, which Harry was glad to hear, tilted his head. “British immigrants, you mean? I don’t know, I guess. Why do you ask?_ _ _ _

____Lucy put her hand out for Harry’s list. “Evan here is trying to find British wizards in each of these countries. He’s planning the wizarding equivalent of Interrail.”_ _ _ _

____Dawud took the paper with a curious look at Harry. “We have that?”_ _ _ _

____“No,” Lucy said. “Of course we don’t. The spirit of international community and exchange? Young people making genuine connections across country borders? Have you _lived_ in the wizarding world?” She rolled her eyes._ _ _ _

____Harry, who felt that they were having an entirely different conversation, literally over his head, awkwardly stuck his hands in his pockets, looking up at Dawud and hoping._ _ _ _

____“Sorry,” Dawud said, handing the list back to Harry. Harry’s spirits sank. “I’m afraid I’ve only got one name for you.” Harry held his breath._ _ _ _

____“Charlie Weasley.”_ _ _ _

____Harry wanted to fling his note up in the air and jump for joy. But he forced himself to stay still and bit his lip hard, to hide his grin._ _ _ _

____“Oh?” He asked, trying to sound only the amount of happy he would reasonably be at finding another British contact for the list._ _ _ _

____“The seeker?” Lucy asked. Harry looked at her. He knew she would know him. He thought in satisfaction, Though okay, it hadn’t been exactly the help he’d imagined._ _ _ _

____Dawud was nodding, “Yeah, you remember him right? Gryffindor. He went out to Romania to study dragons, I think last year? Or the year before. I can’t remember exactly now. He’s in touch with Bernard.” He leant forward and caught Harry’s eye, dropping his voice. “I think they do some under the table trade in dragon bits,” he leant back. “But don’t say I told you.”_ _ _ _

____Lucy grinned, then turned to look at Harry, “There’s one more for your list.” She looked back at Dawud. “Is Bernard working today?”_ _ _ _

____Dawud nodded and looked at Harry. “He works at Slug and Jiggers, he’ll be happy to help.” Then he tilted his head to the side. “Tell him Dawud sent you,” he amended._ _ _ _

____At this point, a woman passed Harry and Lucy to go into the clothes shop and Dawud sent them a quick grin, before stepping back and following her in._ _ _ _

____Harry looked up at Lucy_ _ _ _

____“I should get back,” she said. “But, come by if Bernard causes any trouble. We can sic Dawud on him.” She smiled._ _ _ _

____Harry thanked her and again for the list, before setting off back towards Diagon._ _ _ _

____Unlike last time he had been in the potions shop, Harry didn’t head straight for the counter, but walked along the aisles, and eventually came upon the elusive Bernard standing on a little stool, restacking pots of iridescent beetle wings._ _ _ _

____“Busy. Try the counter,” he said when Harry tried to get his attention. He didn't look away from the pots he was sorting, and Harry realised what Lucy had meant._ _ _ _

____“Actually, Dawud sent me.”_ _ _ _

____Bernard looked up sharply from the pots in his hand. “Dawud _sent_ you?” he asked, gaze narrowing._ _ _ _

____“Yes,” Harry replied. “He said you could help me.”_ _ _ _

____Bernard’s expression thawed ever so slightly and Harry very quickly explained his dilemma._ _ _ _

____“Oh Charlie Weasley,” Bernard said. Then he glanced quickly behind him, towards where the counter was. Harry remembered what Dawud had said about ingredients import._ _ _ _

____Bernard climbed down from the stool and stepped a little closer to him. “He’s at the Maramures Dragon Reserve.”_ _ _ _

____Maramures, Harry, repeated the name to himself._ _ _ _

____“Don’t, ah, don’t go spreading it around that we’re in touch, alright,” Bernard said._ _ _ _

____“But I can tell him you gave me his contact, right?”_ _ _ _

____Bernard nodded, “Yeah you can tell _him_ , but don’t go telling all your little friends, got it?” He fixed Harry with a look._ _ _ _

____Harry, inwardly rolling his eyes, said seriously that he wouldn’t tell anyone. Bernard seemed to feel he was telling the truth because he climbed back into his stool and returned to stacking._ _ _ _

____Harry wandered back out of the shop and thought about what to do next._ _ _ _

____There was no reason not to set off, he thought. He had the address to send Hedwig to now, but he didn’t have to wait for her to get back. He could start his journey. Whether Charlie sent him the address or not, he’d still be going to Romania._ _ _ _

____ _ _

____Harry tried to think what else he needed before he got going. Shoes for walking, and food… He’d need some Romanian currency for the Muggle part of the trip._ _ _ _

____Harry walked up Diagon Alley, keeping an eye out for the cobblers, but he reached Gringotts before he could find it._ _ _ _

____Harry’s hand tingled a little as he stepped through the doors, but when he glanced at it, he saw none of the golden threads against his skin. He didn’t particularly want to meet with Orgik a second time, so Harry walked straight up to the first available teller and asked them if they could change galleons to Romanian Muggle currency. The goblin didn’t even bat an eye, just nodded._ _ _ _

____“How much?”_ _ _ _

____Harry, who had decided to treat Romanian Muggle currency like British, counted enough galleons to cover a train journey from London to Edinburgh and back, and watched in surprise as the Goblin stacked a tower of notes onto the table, sweeping the galleons off into a drawer. In the end, Harry asked for a second bag to put them in and watched as the Muggle notes disappearing into its depths._ _ _ _

____He walked out of the bank feeling a thrum of excitement. This was it. He was finally doing something, he thought._ _ _ _

____He turned and walked up, past Which Witch, until he realised he was getting dangerously close to the entrance to Knockturn, but a moment later, he caught sight of the familiar shape of a boot, hanging in place of a sign, and a little closer he could read ‘Schumann’s’ in thick red lettering above the shop window._ _ _ _

____The window display was full of summer sandals and Harry hoped they’d have something a bit more practical._ _ _ _

____He pushed the door open. The shop inside was airy and smelt pleasantly of leather. It was fairly crowded, and Harry looked around while he waited for one of the assistants to be free._ _ _ _

____They had, like in a Muggle shop, shoes on shelves across the wall, with sandals giving way to more formal shoes, to a small collection of boots. There was a corner full of children’s shoes with signs boasting ‘ten-year growing charms’ and ‘anti-scuff polish’._ _ _ _

____The back section of the shop was a workshop, divided from the customer area by a large counter. As Harry got closer, he realised it was teeming with house-elves. His eyes widened. He’d never come in the shop before, only looked in the window, so he’d never realised._ _ _ _

____They were about ten house-elves sitting on high stools, some cutting leather, some drawing shoe-like shapes on paper. Others stitching with sharp, wicked-looking needles and still more holding almost finished shoes in their hands and cutting away at strips of leather with shining blades. The atmosphere was one of steady, focused industry, and it reminded Harry a little of Hogwarts, only these elves didn’t rush to serve him, in fact, they mostly ignored him. It wasn’t until he heard a dry cough from the side, that he realised one of the elves had approached._ _ _ _

____“Is sir needed help?” Said the elf, whose skin was a paler green than Dobby’s and his ears a little smaller. He was wiping his hands on his leather apron, and Harry saw that the cloth underneath, while still more resembling a pillowcase than clothes, was neatly hemmed, and embroidered with a red S on the chest._ _ _ _

____Harry realised he was staring, and quickly explained that he was going on a walking holiday, and he wasn’t sure if he needed a walking boot or just better charms. He indicated his shoes._ _ _ _

____“May I?” the elf asked, extending a long-fingered hand._ _ _ _

____Harry, hopping about a bit, took one shoe off and handed it over._ _ _ _

____The elf turned it this way and that, tapped the sole, his ear quivering, even sniffed it, before handing it back._ _ _ _

____“You is walking in mountains, or in marshes, in sand or in snow?”_ _ _ _

____Harry cast his mind back to what the land around the cabin had been like. “Mud,” he said firmly. “Marsh, grassland and beaches.” He refocused on the elf._ _ _ _

____The elf nodded, it’s ears waving as it did so. “You is wanting better waterproofing against the marshes, and anti-stick to keep mud from making you heavy, but cushioning charms are good, ventilation also. How long is you travelling for?” He asked, looking up at Harry._ _ _ _

____“A week? No two weeks, I think.” Harry said, to be on the safe side._ _ _ _

____“You is not wearing them out then.” He nodded sharply, “Just waterproofing and anti-stick potions, you is wanting them done now?”_ _ _ _

____Harry looked at him hopefully. “Can you? I mean, will it take long?”_ _ _ _

____“You is wearing them away?”_ _ _ _

____“You mean right now? Oh, yes. Is that bad?”_ _ _ _

____“You is being apparated?”_ _ _ _

____Harry hesitated. “Yes,” he said after a moment, “I’m being apparated.”  
“Then it is fine. Potions need from two to twenty-four hours to set, longer is better. Apparition, flying, some short walking, is fine.” He fixed his large eyes on Harry. “Floo is bad, burns potions off before they set.”_ _ _ _

____He gestured Harry over to the counter and placed the shoes next to him as he wrote out a ticket. “Twelve sickles, twenty,” he said finally, rolling up the ticket and placing it inside one of Harry’s shoes, then passing the pair to another house elf._ _ _ _

____Harry pulled out the correct change and watched as the house elf took his shoes to a table filled with potions vials, and began running his fingers over them, occasionally checking the labels._ _ _ _

____Another customer came up behind Harry, so he stepped to the side and sat down on a free chair._ _ _ _

____Harry looked down at his socks and wriggled his toes. He’d need to go to the supermarket again, he thought. Buy something for the frozen section of the old cupboard, meat or fish. More vegetables. They’d keep better under magic than they would in a fridge. Maybe some pre-cooked dinners… He continued in this vein, mentally composing a shopping list, until the house elf returned, far more quickly than Harry had expected._ _ _ _

____Harry thanked him and put his shoes back on. They felt fine. The elf waited a moment until he was sure Harry was satisfied, then turned to a new customer. Harry left the shop a little bemused. He wondered if Hermione had ever found this place._ _ _ _

____**_ _ _ _

____His tasks having taken a much shorter amount of time than he thought, it didn’t take long for Harry to retrace his steps out of the Leaky Cauldron to the quiet alleyway and from there to the tent._ _ _ _

____He was glad to see Hedwig sitting on her perch in her cage, and he smiled at her._ _ _ _

____“I’ve got a letter for you girl. It’s a quite a long way, but it’s very important.” He walked over to her and stroked her head._ _ _ _

____The letter, however, gave Harry some trouble._ _ _ _

____~~Dear Charlie,~~ Dear Mr Weasley,_ _ _ _

____You don’t know me, ~~but I’m a friend of~~ I was given your contact by ~~a friend~~ a mutual acquaintance, Bernard, who works at Slug and Jiggers._ _ _ _

____I am hoping to visit Romania ~~soon~~ one day and I was wondering if you could give me advice on the best places to visit. I really like the seaside ~~and caves~~ and caves._ _ _ _

____Somewhere only magical people can go would be really fun and interesting to explore._ _ _ _

____Is there a place you, ~~or your friends~~ the people you work with in Romania, can recommend?_ _ _ _

____Thanks in advance,_ _ _ _

____Harry Potter._ _ _ _

____Almost an hour later, Harry stared at the paper, covered in strikethroughs and ink blotches, and decided he better write out a clean copy._ _ _ _

____He finally slid it in the envelope, addressed it to _Charlie Weasley, Maramures Dragon Reserve, Romania_ and carried it over to Hedwig. “Here it is girl. Wait for a response, then bring it back to me. I won’t be here. I trust you to find me, I’ll be moving about a bit. Do you think you can do it?”_ _ _ _

____She extended her leg and gripped the envelope tightly, clicking her beak._ _ _ _

____“Attagirl,” he said with a grin and she launched herself up, past him and out through the tent flap, into the sky._ _ _ _

____Harry thought he better check on his other houseguest, but was disappointed to find Sylvia nowhere to be seen. He called out for her, even walking around outside the tent, but she didn’t reply._ _ _ _

____He didn’t think she’d be in any danger, not with those potions, but he’d better have a word with her about staying close to the tent once they started moving._ _ _ _

____Harry, still needing to stock up on food, decided he could always use a Point Me spell later, and he went back inside, leaving his robe on a chair, his muggle money in his pocket and rucksack on his back, he apparated back to Tesco._ _ _ _

____There was no one at the bottle bank this time, and Harry grabbed another basket and loaded up on food._ _ _ _

____He did get some odd looks while filling his rucksack at the till, which he tried to ignore._ _ _ _

____“Bigger than it looks,” the shop assistant said, tearing off his receipt and handing it to him._ _ _ _

____“Uh, yeah. Very… roomy.” Harry nodded, slinging the bag onto his shoulder and grabbing the receipt._ _ _ _

____“Amazed you can carry it all.” She continued, looking at him in surprise._ _ _ _

____“Yeah,” Harry just laughed like she was telling a joke, then all but ran out of the shop, towards the bins._ _ _ _

____There was a woman emptying bottles into one of them, so Harry had to wait, dropping to a crouch and pretending to tie his laces until she finally left. Then he scrambled up and ducked behind the bins. His heart was beating fast. This was it, this was really it. He was going._ _ _ _

____He apparated back to the tent and landed with a little stumble, quickly pulling off his rucksack, he stored all his food away._ _ _ _

____Harry looked about himself._ _ _ _

____He’d need to take the panniers outside, his warm clothes, his broom. And he’d need to double check the direction. He’d need to fit the compass to his broom as well, he thought. Everything else though could stay inside the tent as it was packed up._ _ _ _

____Harry gathered the items he needed, secured the compass with a sticking charm, and looked at the Atlas._ _ _ _

____He didn’t particularly want to apparate again, not so soon. He’d be better off flying back towards London and saving his strength. He’d thought he’d need to clear the British Border Wards as well, but looking at the map, he realised he was pretty close to the Western border right now, depending on when the River Severn started to count as sea not river._ _ _ _

____And anyway, he thought, closing the book, hadn’t Dumbledore taken him to the coast? To find Tom Riddle’s cave? It didn’t make sense that British wizards would trigger their own wards. Which was good, it meant he could fly right up to the coast. He thought, in order to land in the right bit of France, he ought to aim a little further south than Dover, so he picked Hastings as his destination and he watched as the compass suddenly spun, the ‘destination’ marker starting to glow._ _ _ _

____Harry put on his warm clothes, grabbed the panniers and his new broom and strode out of the tent and was about to pack it up when he remembered Sylvia._ _ _ _

____Calling her he went back inside and it was a lucky thing he did because she was back to being curled up in the cupboard._ _ _ _

_____“We’re leaving.”_ Harry said, reaching for her. _“You’re going to have to be more careful about when you leave the tent from now on.”__ _ _ _

_____“I was exploring,”_ she said, sliding around Harry’s fingers._ _ _ _

_____“Well, no more exploring for a while,”_ Harry replied. _“we’re going flying.”__ _ _ _

_____“We’re going what?!”_ She said, her head sticking up._ _ _ _

_____“Don’t worry, it’ll be great.”_ And Harry slipped her into the inner pocket of his coat, where he thought she’d be warmer, ignoring her hissing._ _ _ _

____He strode back out into the main part of the tent, then forced himself to stop and check if there was anything else._ _ _ _

____He could put the Atlas into one of the pannier bags, he thought. That way he could check it without setting the whole tent up._ _ _ _

____And he could pack some food as well._ _ _ _

____He suddenly realised it was about lunchtime and he hadn’t eaten. He didn’t feel hungry though, not with all the adrenaline. He put some snacks in one of the panniers, then slipped an apple into his pocket. There, that would do._ _ _ _

____With that he strode back out of the tent and with a few quick snaps of his wand, the tent folded itself down, rolled itself up and wriggled into its own bag. He picked it up and dropped it into the other pannier._ _ _ _

____“Up,” he said clearly and the broom rose to hover at his waist. He slung the panniers over and settled them securely until he felt the locking charms engage, then with great sweeps of his wand, he took his defences all down until the clearing was just like any other._ _ _ _

____This done, he flung his leg over the broom and in one fluid motion, rose sharply into the sky._ _ _ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There will probably be a break before the next chapter gets posted, because I need to stop ignoring my real life for fic :(


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